fl 


1AM  B  L  E  S 
IN  OLD 

COLLEGE 
TOWN  S 

LDEGARDE 


RAMBLES  IN  OLD  COLLEGE  TOWNS 


The  Path  Sweeps  up   to   the  Square   Central 
Tower 


RAMBLES  IN  OLD 
COLLEGE  TOWNS 


By 
Hildegarde   Hawthorne 

Author  of  "  The  Lure  of  the  Garden,"  "  Old 

Seaport  Towns  of  New  England,"  etc. 

with  drawings  by 

John  Albert  Seaford 


New  York 

Dodd,   Mead  &  Company 


1917 


V 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PACK 

I  JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE  IN  CHARLOTTESVILLE           1 

II     WILLIAM  AND  MARY 34 

III  ANNAPOLIS 68 

IV  PRINCETON 93 

V  YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN        ....  125^ 

VI  PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY          .  155 

VII  HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE     .         .        .         .183 

VIII  WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY           .  205 

IX  BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK    .        .        .  223 

X  DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER  ....  240 

XI     AMHERST 259  " " 

XII  SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON    ....  276 

XIII  WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     .        .        .  293 

XIV     VASSAR 310 

XV     WEST  POINT 328 

XVI  CORNELL  347 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Path  Sweeps  Up  to  the  Square  Central  Tower 

Frontispiece 

FACING 
FACE 

The  Arcades  of  West  Lawn  and  the  Rotunda   .        .        16 
The  Main  Building  Has  an  Effect  of  Serene  Dignity 

and  Welcome 44 

The  Centre  of  All  Is  the  State  House        ...        80 
Fine  Old  Connecticut  Hall  Strikes  a  Note  of  Peculiar 

Charm 132 

In  the  Same  Row  with  University  Hall  Is  Manning, 

with  Its  Doric  Columns 166 

The  Lofty  Fence  and  Various  Superb  Gates      .        .      190 
A  Charming  Path  and  Steps  Lead  Down  from  Stone 

Hall  .  .  .212 

The  Severely  Architectural  Gateway  of  the  Class  of 
1878          .  .......     230 

The  Beautiful  Old  Row 246 

Johnson  Chapel,  with  Its  Doric  Pillars  and  Delight- 
ful Square  Tower 268 

The  Old  Homestead  of  Judge  Dewey,  with  Its  Col- 
umns and  Doric  Simplicity 282 

Thompson  Chapel,  Whose  Stone  Tower  Points  Its 

Exquisite  White  Finials  Above  the  Arching  Elms     300 
The  Library,  Perhaps  the  Most  Beautiful  of  Vassar's 

Buildings 318 

The  Chapel,  West  Point 336 

The  Great  Library,  with  Its  Uprising  Tower   .        .      352 


RAMBLES  IN  OLD  COLLEGE  TOWNS 


RAMBLES  IN  OLD  COLLEGE 
TOWNS 

CHAPTER  I 

Jefferson's  College  in  Charlottesville 

IT  was  late  in  April  when  we  decided  to  begin 
our  little  tour  of  the  old  college  towns  here  in 
the  East  by  starting  for  Virginia.  We'd  neither 
of  us  ever  been  farther  into  the  Old  Dominion 
than  Mount  Vernon,  which  is  not  so  much  part 
of  a  State  as  part  of  history,  so  the  distance 
beckoned  with  all  the  allurement  of  the  new. 
Then  there  was  the  hope  of  warmth  and  sun, 
powerful  magnets  in  this  cold,  grey,  unwilling 
war  spring,  as  reluctant  to  mobilise  as  the  most 
pernicious  pacifist  in  a  House  and  Senate  just 
then  struggling  with  the  Conscription  Bill. 

"  Shall  we  take  the  sea  trip  and  begin  with 
Williamsburg,  or  go  by  train  and  see  the 
University  of  Virginia  first?"  I  asked  Sister, 
as  we  studied  time-tables  and  looked  at  maps 
and  wished  the  janitor  would  respond  with 
greater  heartiness  to  the  telephoned  demands  for 
more  heat.  Outside  the  rain  drizzled  on  the 

-*-!-*- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

pavements  and  two  trees,  visible  from  the  western 
windows,  withheld  without  a  struggle  the  least 
impulse  toward  budding. 

"  Nothing  that's  wet  appeals  to  me,"  Sister 
responded.  "  I  don't  really  think  that  spring 
has  got  any  farther  along  to  the  South,  but  if  it 
has  I  want  to  see  where  it  begins.  My  vote  is 
for  the  train." 

Surely  one  of  our  modern  miracles  is  the  ability 
we  have  to  change  the  space  of  a  season  from 
weeks  to  hours.  Surprise  is  the  most  volatile 
and  fleeting  of  possessions — the  most  amazing 
experiences  lose  their  wonder  in  the  very  act  of 
happening.  The  huge  subversion  of  life  that  is 
in  progress  along  the  fighting  line  in  Europe 
becomes  the  commonplace  of  daily  living  in  a 
few  weeks,  with  no  more  element  of  surprise 
than  inheres  to  the  customary  existence  of  a 
broker  on  Wall  Street.  What  happens  happens, 
and  your  adjustments  are  made  so  instinctively 
as  to  be  practically  imperceptible. 

We  were  off.  We  had  marched  down  the  long 
corridor  of  the  Pennsylvania  Station,  preceded 
by  a  red  cap  grimly  enduring  our  two  suit  cases, 
two  umbrellas  and  one  small  grip,  for  he  had 
permitted  us  to  retain  none  of  these  things.  We 
had  stepped  down  the  flight  of  stone  steps  at 
the  farther  end  into  the  mighty  concourse  with 
its  pale  and  effective  decorations  by  Jules  Guerin, 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

those  vasty  maps  that  do  really  hint  of  the  mag- 
nificent spaces  of  our  Continent,  and  we  had 
plunged  on  downward  to  the  level  where  our 
train  waited,  and  found  our  chairs. 

"  Yassam,"  said  the  porter,  unbending  as  he 
found  that  though  women  we  were  not  immune 
to  the  great  American  habit.  "  Yassam,  7  and 
9,  here  they  is."  He  stowed  away  our  baggage, 
interrupted  for  a  moment  by  two  men  in  khaki 
who  sought  further  seats.  His  eyes  brightened, 
and  he  smiled  upon  us: 

"  I  done  decided  to  enlist  myself,"  he  told  us, 
and  so  departed,  for  all  we  knew,  on  the  first 
lap  of  his  long  journey  to  the  French  trenches. 

In  the  stealthy  way  of  trains  running  out  of 
the  Pennsylvania  we  found  ourselves  gathering 
speed  and  presently  our  eardrums  were  repelling 
the  pressure  of  the  tunnel  with  a  determination 
to  do  or  bust  familiar  to  commuting  Jerseyites 
who  go  right  on  reading  their  papers  as  though 
a  rampant  eardrum  were  something  beneath  notice, 
even  their  innocent  children  ignoring  the  contest 
completely.  But  we  sat  with  our  fingers  pressed 
to  our  ears  as  though  suddenly  shocked  by  lan- 
guage quite  too  dreadful  for  endurance,  and 
breathed  deep  when  the  train  emerged  into  the 
sunlight  feebly  struggling  through  the  clouds  that 
hung  over  New  Jersey. 

Manhattan  lay  behind  us — the  thrill  of  a  coming 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

vacation,  the  knowledge  that  for  the  next  month 
we  should  be  prospecting  among  colleges,  from 
Virginia  to  Maine,  swept  over  us,  and  we  smiled. 
Only  the  New  Yorker,  completely  in  the  control 
of  the  huge  city  as  he  is,  really  knows  what 
Getting  Away  means. 

I  maintain  that  part  of  every  place  is  the 
getting  to  it.  And  when  it  comes  to  Virginia, 
which  has  given  to  the  country  so  many  great 
presidents  and  statesmen,  then  Washington  is 
surely  a  part  of  Virginia.  And  since  Thomas 
Jefferson  was  the  creator  of  the  University  of 
Virginia,  or  at  least  its  chief  parent,  in  going  to 
Charlottesville  you  must  stop  off  at  Washington 
or  you  will  not  get  the  whole  of  the  college  town. 
A  ramble  is  as  indefinite  as  a  dream,  being  largely 
a  thing  of  the  spirit,  a  condition  of  mind  as  well 
as  the  putting  of  one  foot  before  another. 

But  long  before  we  arrived  in  Washington  we 
had  found  our  surprises.  The  first  was  a  row  of 
plum  trees  in  full  flower.  Spring,  by  Jove! 

That  was  half -down  through  New  Jersey.  The 
skies  were  blue  before  that,  the  grass  ran  green 
beside  us;  now  we  passed  a  cherry  in  flower! 
And  we  pulled  out  of  Philadelphia  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  perfect  chorus  of  green  and  pink 
and  lavender,  displayed  by  forest  trees  beyond  the 
city. 

:<  This  is  really  the  thing! "  exclaimed  Sister. 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

*  To  walk  right  up  on  spring,  as  it  were,  from  a 
chill,  raw  morning  without  a  leaf  to  this  balmy 
flowering  at  noon.  Look,  there's  an  apple  tree 
in  full  bloom!" 

We  entered  Washington  to  find  it  at  the  very 
height  of  its  loveliest  season.  Opposite  the  Pow- 
hatan,  where  we  put  up,  a  little  park  displayed 
everything  used  in  spring  furnishings  from  apple 
and  cherry  to  lilac  and  spirea,  nursemaids  and  rosy 
babies. 

We  wanted  to  hear  some  of  the  debating  going 
on  in  Congress.  Boys  from  the  very  colleges  we 
were  to  visit  would  debate  there  in  their  turn 
some  day,  and  the  fate  of  many  of  them  now  in 
those  colleges  was  being  settled  in  the  House  and 
the  Senate.  Were  we  to  tackle  a  great  offensive 
war,  and  pour  millions  of  our  own  men  into  the 
bleeding  ranks  of  the  allies,  or  were  we  going 
to  spend  money  only,  at  a  pleasing  interest 
rate? 

When  you  try  to  realise  what  it  would  be  like 
to  get  along  without  words,  you  find  that  the 
things  are  important — even  essential.  But  after 
you  have  sat  for  a  few  hours  listening  to  the 
quantities  of  these  very  words  crowding  the  dull 
air  in  the  halls  of  Congress  it  seems  difficult  to  be- 
lieve them  of  the  least  use.  We  went  to  listen, 
thrilling  with  the  idea  that  here  we  should  watch 
and  barken  to  history  in  the  making.  I  suppose 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

we  did.  But  the  actual  impression  was  decidedly 
below  this  mark. 

"  Perhaps  nothing  seems  important  when  some 
one  else  is  talking  about  it,"  said  Sister,  as  we 
waited  for  one  impassioned  orator  to  give  place 
to  another,  hoping  that  then  something  really 
worth  while  would  be  said.  That  is  the  spell  of 
the  place — you  wait  and  wait,  discounting  the 
boredom  of  the  moment  for  the  hope  of  what 
may  come  next  instant.  It  is  the  instinct  for 
gambling  dormant  in  even  the  most  cautious. 

We  left  Washington  next  day  without  having 
heard  the  great  speech,  or  even  the  decisive  word. 
Yet  all  about  us,  in  these  lovely  buildings  standing 
amid  the  bright  glory  of  fresh  leaf  and  flower, 
the  huge  machinery  of  a  nation  rousing  itself  to 
action  was  in  progress.  Men  in  khaki,  men  in 
blue,  secret  service  men  lost  in  business  suits, 
moved  through  the  streets.  On  the  green  behind 
the  White  House,  in  the  late  afternoon,  young 
men  were  drilling,  and  a  bugle  spoke  to  them 
at  intervals  with  a  military  summons  in  its  ring- 
ing throat.  Guards  waited  inside  the  White 
House  grounds,  and  women  suffrage  pickets,  with 
banners,  outside  the  gates. 

Near  us,  while  we  watched  the  boys  drilling, 
two  old  men  sat  on  a  bench. 

"  I  was  here  in  this  town  when  they  fired  on 
Fort  Sumter,"  one  of  them  said,  "  and  I  was  here 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

when  the  Spanish  War  came  along.  Guess  this 
one  will  have  something  to  show  for  itself  before 
we  get  through." 

"  Beats  all  how  these  wars  keep  coming  along," 
murmured  the  other  man,  who  was  even  older 
and  whiter.  "  Nice  looking  young  fellers  .  .  . 
but  no  better  than  what  the  other  wars  took." 

Possibly  there,  and  not  in  Congress,  we  heard 
what  we  had  waited  for. 

It  is  usually  something  that  you  have  not  anti- 
cipated that  strikes  you  when  you  go  to  a  new 
place.  I  remember  that  my  first  impression  of 
Bermuda  was  a  delightful  and  pungent  fragrance 
of  growing  onions.  So  the  first  thing  that  struck 
us  in  Virginia  was  the  lettering  on  two  doors 
at  a  way  station  waitingroom.  The  division 
was  no  longer  that  of  the  sexes;  instead  of 
MEN  and  WOMEN  we  read  WHITE  and 
COLOURED. 

"Well,  sure  enough,  we're  in  the  South,"  I 
remarked. 

The  three  hours'  run  between  Washington  and 
Charlottesville  takes  you  through  lovely,  diversi- 
fied country.  Broad  fields  green  with  winter 
wheat  or  a  deep  crimson  where  they  had  been 
freshly  plowed,  and  fringed  with  woodlands  in 
new  leafage,  rolled  away  on  either  hand.  Through 
the  woods  the  dogwoods  made  a  white  splendour, 
and  a  tree  we  had  only  seen  in  carefully  tended 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

gardens,  the  brilliant  coral  tree,  with  its  close-set 
pink  blossoms  covering  every  branch,  lent  itself 
lavishly  to  the  colour  scheme,  growing  solitary  or 
in  clumps,  by  fields  and  deep  in  the  forests,  a 
wonder  and  a  joy. 

Charlottesville  is  in  the  foothills  of  the  Virginia 
mountains,  that  rise  beyond  in  blue  waves.  An 
air  as  caressing  as  the  soft  Southern  drawl  to 
which  we  had  listened  all  morning  blows  over  it, 
and  somewhere  a  clear  and  lazy  river  winds  past 
it.  Indeed,  we  had  read  that  "  Charlottesville  is 
picturesquely  settled  on  the  Rapidan  River,"  and 
we  rather  expected  to  see  something  like  one  of 
those  little  towns  on  the  upper  Thames  in  Eng- 
land that  string  along  either  bank,  buried  in 
flowers  and  grey  with  age. 

But  Charlottesville  is  not  in  the  least  like  that. 

We  had  left  to  chance  the  determination  of  our 
hostelry:  used  more  to  western  than  southern 
travel  I  expected  to  find  the  Commercial  Hotel 
as  the  one  dominating  factor  when  it  came  to 
bed  and  board.  But  as  we  looked  out  of  the 
window  of  our  train,  approaching  the  brick  station 
that  cuddles  under  a  hill  in  the  lee  of  the  town, 
we  saw  a  small  bus  with  the  name  NEW 
GLEASON  blazoned  upon  it. 

"  That'll  do,"  I  decided.  "  Let's  go  to  the  New 
Gleason." 

In  five  minutes  we  had  done   so.     A  rather 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

frayed  and  battered  looking  house  on  the  Main 
Street,  opposite  an  old  and  unattractive  church. 
I  have  always  hated  more  than  another  the  word 
pretentious.  It  is  an  ugly  word  and  means  an 
ugly  and  distressing  thing,  but  it  is  considerably 
used  in  this  our  country.  I  felt  immediately, 
however,  that  it  would  never  be  used  in  relation 
to  the  New  Gleason.  There  was  nothing  what- 
ever pretentious  about  the  place.  It  was  plain, 
it  was  unadorned,  it  bore  the  records  of  elder  days 
in  dusky  wallpaper  and  imitation  grained  wood. 
The  elevator  that  bore  us  to  our  floor  moved 
with  a  glacier's  speed,  and  the  rooms  themselves 
conformed  strictly  to  the  worst  mid- Victorian 
ideas  of  colour  and  furniture.  But  the  windows 
were  big,  and  the  air  that  blew  into  them  was 
sweet  and  soft.  Hot  water  ran  freely  into  a  big 
bathtub,  and  the  beds  were  comfortable.  The 
place  was  not  pretentious,  but  one  liked  it.  One 
liked  it  better  as  one  knew  it  better.  The  service 
was  effective  and  friendly  and  personal.  The 
food  was  simple  and  good.  Every  one  in  the 
place  was  pleasant. 

Our  depression  on  first  coming  in  vanished. 
We  looked  out  at  the  unattractiveness  of  Main 
Street  with  a  fresh  interest.  The  town  must 
have  more  than  we  could  see  in  that  drive  from 
the  station — and  then  there  was  the  river,  the 
Rapidan. 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

We  left  our  New  Gleason,  looked  right  and 
left,  and  turned  right.  Where  would  it  take  us? 

In  a  minute  we  had  crossed  the  bridge  over  the 
tracks  of  the  railroad,  and  the  street  became 
greener.  Old  houses  backed  away  from  it,  with 
gardens  as  a  protection  between  themselves  and 
the  passerby;  old  gardens,  running  to  seed,  but 
full  of  savour  and  colour.  Suddenly  we  saw  great 
stone  and  iron  gates  before  us,  with  a  group  of 
shops — The  College  Book-Store,  a  drug  store,  a 
post  office — it  was,  we  heard  later,  the  Corners, 
and  the  chief  rendezvous  of  a  public  sort  for  the 
students.  Many  of  them,  and  fine  boys  they 
looked,  lounged  in  the  doorways  and  on  the  ex- 
tensive flights  of  steps  that  recent  or  fairly  recent 
grading  made  necessary. 

We  had  reached  the  first  college  on  our  list, 
Thomas  Jefferson's  University  of  Virginia,  and 
we  had  done  it  instinctively.  Here  were  the  forty 
acres  bought  from  John  Perry  for  twelve  dollars 
an  acre,  his  field  having  been  selected  from  three 
offered,  all  within  a  mile  of  Charlottesville  Court 
House.  To  be  sure,  the  forty  has  been  broadened 
to  over  five  hundred,  and  the  buildings  have  multi- 
plied since  Jefferson's  day.  But  he  it  was  who 
evolved  the  idea  of  a  University  from  the  original 
scheme  to  erect  a  mere  academy,  he  it  was  who 
drew  the  plans,  and  he  who,  with  the  manager 
of  his  estate  of  Monticello,  an  Irish  assistant, 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

Dinsmore,  and  ten  able-bodied  workmen,  started 
the  building  of  the  college.  The  story  of  this 
start  is  worth  retailing,  as  it  is  told  by  the  man- 
ager, Captain  Edmund  Bacon,  for  years  Jeffer- 
son's personal  friend  and  major  domo. 

"  As  we  passed  through  Charlottesville,"  he 
says,  "  I  went  to  old  Davy  Isaac's  store  and  got 
a  ball  of  twine,  and  Dinsmore  found  some  shingles 
and  made  some  pegs  and  we  all  went  to  the  old 
field  together.  Mr.  Jefferson  looked  over  the 
ground  for  some  time  and  then  stuck  down  a 
peg.  He  stuck  the  very  first  peg  in  that  building, 
and  I  stuck  the  second.  He  carried  one  end 
of  the  line  and  I  the  other  in  laying  off  the 
foundation  of  the  University." 

The  corner  stone  was  laid  in  1817,  by  the 
Widow's  Son  Lodge,  Madison  and  Monroe  as- 
sisting while  Jefferson  looked  on,  his  noble  white 
head  towering  over  the  crowd  that  had  come  to 
attend  the  ceremonies.  The  college  then  was 
called  Center  College,  but  Jefferson  had  already 
evolved  a  plan  for  its  development  into  a  Uni- 
versity, and  helped  by  the  hearty  co-operation  of 
his  friend,  Joseph  Carrington  Cabell,  the  plan  was 
adopted  by  the  Legislature  in  1818-19,  and  seven 
independent  schools,  under  the  name  of  the 
University  of  Virginia,  were  opened  to  scholars 
in  1825.  Jefferson  died  the  year  following,  on 
the  Fourth  of  July,  almost  at  the  same  hour  that 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

saw  the  death  of  Adams,  but  he  had  the  joy  of 
seeing  the  institution  to  which  he  had  given  such 
fervid  support,  and  even  the  actual  labour  of  his 
hands,  in  full  running  order. 

The  place  is  wonderfully  beautiful.  It  is  more 
cohesive  in  architecture  than  any  other  college 
group  in  America,  save  only  Leland  Stanford, 
but  it  is  far  lovelier  and  richer  to  the  eye  than 
the  western  university,  richer  with  years  and  the 
softer,  greener  climate,  with  age-mellowed  stone 
and  pinkish  brick,  lovelier  because  the  Greek  idea 
from  which  it  springs  is  more  exquisite  than  any 
other.  The  hard,  'bright  beauty  of  Stanford  loses 
beside  the  unconscious  grace  and  charm  of  Vir- 
ginia. Shaded  by  giant  oaks  and  elms,  with 
magnolias  shining  in  its  old  gardens,  the  long 
slopes  of  its  rectangular,  oblong  campus  (called 
The  Lawn)  terraced  down  from  the  Rotunda  at 
one  end  to  the  Administration  Building  on  the 
other,  and  fenced  on  either  side  by  the  long 
pillared  arcades  that  are  like  cloisters  in  old 
monasteries  in  Italy,  and  follow  Tuscan  models, 
the  first  impression  is  enchanting  and  complete. 
For  though  there  is  more,  and  though  we  spent 
hours  of  delight  in  wandering  here  and  there, 
looking  into  box  edged  flower-beds,  sitting 
before  statues,  leaning  on  the  stone  balustrades 
of  curving  pergolas  that  gave  one  far  flung  views 
of  valley  and  hill,  yet  that  first  glance  round  The 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

Lawn,  with  the  sunlight  playing  wonder-tricks  on 
column  and  wall  and  ivy  hung  building,  gives  the 
essence  and  the  beauty  undiluted  and  radiant. 
We  loved  it  in  an  instant. 

From  the  gate  where  we  entered  you  go  past 
the  hospital,  a  fine  building  dating  from  1900 
which  is  being  enlarged,  and  which  is  far  newer 
than  the  academic  piles,  though  the  good  taste 
of  the  controlling  spirits  of  the  University  has 
kept  every  part  in  complete  architectural  har- 
mony. By  winding  paths  and  up  steps  and  under 
a  leaf -hung  arch  we  reached  The  Lawn,  which 
is  on  the  highest  part  of  the  old  grounds.  Young 
men  in  khaki  were  hurrying  hither  and  thither; 
it  looked  as  though  the  whole  University  were 
preparing  for  war,  and  later  we  were  told  that 
more  than  seven  hundred  of  the  students  had 
enrolled  in  the  military  organization.  Bronze 
tablets  on  either  side  of  the  entrance  into  the 
Rotunda  (where  now  the  library  is  housed)  bore 
the  names  of  Confederate  dead  sent  out  from  this 
same  spot  to  fight  the  Union;  were  there  to  be 
new  tablets  to  the  names  of  Virginia's  youth 
fallen  for  the  Union? 

"  You  cannot  look  at  those  fine  boys  and  think 
what  may  be  lying  ahead  of  us  and  not  feel  posi- 
tively sick,"  said  Sister.  "In  every  college  we  are 
going  to  see  them,  young  and  eager  and  joyous, 
thrilling  to  this  call  from  their  country.  Look  at 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

all  this,  and  picture  those  trenches  in  France  and 
Belgium — all  in  the  same  world." 

Above  our  heads,  high  in  the  maple  boughs,  a 
cardinal  was  calling,  with  that  swinging,  swishing 
note,  clear  and  high,  the  very  note  of  youth.  It 
dropped  through  the  branches  like  a  great  drop 
of  blood,  flashed  in  the  sun,  and  was  gone. 

In  1895  a  fire  destroyed  a  portion  of  the  Uni- 
versity. The  Rotunda  was  partly  burned,  the 
dome  going,  and  to  the  north  of  it,  where  now 
the  Plaza  extends,  the  Public  Hall,  used  for  lec- 
ture rooms  and  in  the  graduating  exercises,  was 
completely  gutted.  The  fire  threatened  the 
dormitories  of  East  and  West  Lawn,  as  those 
facing  on  the  Lawn  are  called,  but  a  fortunate 
change  of  wind  helped  the  fire  fighters,  and  the 
oldest  part  of  the  college  structure  was  left 
unharmed. 

A  delightful  boy  did  the  honours  of  the  place 
for  us,  showing  us  in  and  out  of  the  buildings 
and  retailing  scraps  of  history. 

"  There's  a  drop  of  twenty  feet  from  the  lowest 
step  of  the  Rotunda  to  this  square  here,  the  New 
Quadrangle,"  he  said,  and  softly  the  southern 
accent  fell  upon  our  ears.  "  This  part  is  the  new 
group — the  Academic  and  Rouss  and  Mechanical. 
This  south  end  used  to  be  open  once,  so  from  the 
Rotunda  you  could  look  clear  out  across  the 
country." 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

He  took  us  through  the  arcades  of  West  Lawn 
to  the  Rotunda,  chatting  as  we  went.  It  was  a 
stirring  time  for  the  University,  with  all  her  sons 
volunteering. 

"  I  reckon  our  fathers  who  graduated  here 
wouldn't  hardly  have  thought  we'd  ever  be  doing 
that,"  he  remarked,  smiling.  "And  some  of  the 
older  men  and  women  aren't  rightly  reconstructed 
even  yet." 

From  the  stone  terrace  of  the  Rotunda  above 
the  columns  and  arches  we  looked  southward  down 
The  Lawn.  Five  pavilions  on  either  side  separated 
at  regular  intervals  the  one  story  dormitories 
where  the  students  lived;  these  are  the  houses  of 
the  professors,  two  stories  in  height,  and  copied 
after  Doric  and  Ionic  models.  Jefferson  got  his 
idea  from  the  drawings  of  Palladio.  These  por- 
tions were  finished  and  ready  for  occupancy  by 
1823.  The  roof  of  the  colonnade,  balustraded, 
joins  these  pavilions,  making  a  long  balcony 
shadowed  by  the  maple  boughs. 

Close  to  the  Rotunda  to  right  and  left  are  the 
offices  of  administrators  and  the  Faculty  and 
President's  rooms.  Until  1905  U.  of  V.  was 
managed  by  the  Rector,  a  Board  of  Visitors,  and 
instead  of  the  President,  the  Chairman  of  the 
Faculty,  with  only  slight  executive  powers.  Then 
a  change  was  made,  and  Edwin  Anderson  Alder- 
man was  given  the  Presidency.  Jefferson's  idea 

-+-15-*- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

was  to  make  a  little  Republic  of  the  institution, 
and  here  the  elective  system  was  first  tried.  This 
is  what  the  Founder  says  on  that  score:  he  was 
writing  to  George  Ticknor,  of  Boston: 

"  I  am  not  fully  aware  of  the  practices  of  Har- 
vard, but  there  is  one  thing  from  which  we  shall 
certainly  vary  .  .  .  holding  the  students  all  to 
one  prescribed  course  of  reading,  and  disallowing 
exclusive  application  to  those  branches  only  which 
are  to  qualify  them  for  the  particular  vocations  to 
which  they  are  destined.  We  shall,  on  the  con- 
trary, allow  them  uncontrolled  choice  in  the  lec- 
tures they  shall  choose  to  attend,  and  require 
elementary  qualifications  only,  and  sufficient  age. 
Our  institution  will  proceed  on  the  principle  of 
doing  all  the  good  it  can,  without  consulting  its 
own  pride  and  ambition;  of  letting  everyone 
come  and  listen  to  whatever  he  thinks  may  im- 
prove the  condition  of  his  mind." 

There  was  a  statement  worthy  of  the  great 
exponent  of  Democracy.  And  well  have  his  plans 
been  fulfilled,  and  splendidly  have  they  proved 
themselves. 

The  Rotunda,  which  was  so  badly  injured  in 
the  fire,  was  restored  by  McKim,  Mead  &  White, 
and  is  one  of  the  handsomest  buildings  in  America, 
.modelled  after  the  Panthenon  in  Rome.  On 
Jefferson's  last  visit  to  the  University,  about  a 
month  before  his  death,  he  sat  on  the  balcony  of 


i 

o 


g 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

the  then  library,  and  watched  the  first  marble 
capital  being  placed  on  its  great  column.  The 
capitals  had  been  imported  from  Italy  when  the 
stone  of  the  neighbourhood  was  discovered  to  be 
too  friable  for  the  work  required.  Jefferson 
allowed  nothing  but  fine  material  and  honest 
work  in  his  beloved  institution. 

"  He  sat  right  over  yonder,"  our  student  ex- 
plained, "  before  that  fourth  pavilion  on  the 
West  Lawn.  That  was  the  building  whose  corner 
stone  was  laid  as  Central  College,  and  the  first 
of  the  row.  It  was  the  library  for  several  years, 
and  some  folks  call  it  the  Old  Library  to  this 
day — but  it's  been  one  of  the  professor  houses 
since  1840,  I  think;  a  long  time,  anyhow.  He 
had  come  to  classify  some  of  the  books.  Just 
as  soon  as  the  capital  was  in  place  he  rode  off, 
and  that  was  the  last  time  he  got  over  here." 

Jefferson  is  still  a  presence  in  the  University. 
Statues  and  portraits  of  him  are  to  be  found  in 
the  main  readingroom  of  the  library,  in  the 
Academic  building,  on  the  New  Quadrangle, 
where  he  faces  Washington  across  the  width  of 
The  Lawn.  And  his  name  sounds  familiarly  in 
the  talk  of  student  or  professor.  The  child  of 
his  old  age  loves  him  still.  The  statue  in  the 
Rotunda  was  saved  from  the  fire  by  the  struggles 
of  the  students,  who  carried  it  out  of  danger, 
breaking  a  small  portion  of  the  cloak  that  hangs 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

from  the  shoulders,  we  were  told,  though  we  could 
not  find  the  spot.  It  was  made  by  Gait  and  was 
said  to  be  a  perfect  likeness.  The  newer  statue 
on  the  Quad  is  by  Karl  Bitter.  That  of  Wash- 
ington is  the  original  of  the  one  lately  presented 
to  England  by  Virginia. 

It  is  easy  to  spend  hours  lingering  about 
these  old,  beautiful  buildings  and  grounds.  The 
Rotunda's  central  chamber  is  a  magnificent  thing, 
the  great  dome,  painted  a  pale  sky-blue,  in  which 
soar  white  eagles  with  golden  beaks,  being  sup- 
ported on  a  circle  of  graceful  pillars  that  are 
indescribably  dignified.  At  one  side  there  is  a 
bust  of  Poe,  whose  room,  in  the  West  Range,  we 
saw  later.  The  bust  is  by  Zolnay,  the  same  that 
was  so  ardently  praised  by  the  poet  Stedman. 

Jefferson  had  intended  the  Rotunda  for  the 
library,  and  also  for  use  as  a  chapel,  though  entire 
religious  freedom  is  one  of  the  tenets  of  the 
University,  and  there  was  never  a  hint  of  com- 
pulsory attendance.  This  gave  rise,  in  narrower 
days,  to  a  report  that  the  college  was  atheistical. 
If  you  didn't  make  people  worship  according  to 
your  own  idea,  you  must  be  wicked  to  the  core, 
was  the  prevailing  notion.  As  it  happens,  the 
first  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  the  world  was  established  at 
Virginia,  and  has  always  been  of  immense  use- 
fulness there.  It  is  housed  now  in  a  fine  great 
building  conforming  to  the  general  scheme  of 

-+•18+- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

architecture,  built  recently,  beyond  the  West 
Range.  There  is,  in  the  corner  northwest  of  the 
Rotunda,  a  Gothic  chapel  erected  by  some  com- 
mittee or  other  in  1890,  a  fair  example  of  its 
style,  but  utterly  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest 
of  the  University.  Fortunately  it  is  sufficiently 
out  of  the  picture  not  to  be  distressing. 

"  This  terrace  must  be  a  wonderful  place  in 
a  moonlight  night,"  Sister  said,  as  we  lingered 
there,  on  coming  out  of  the  library  again.  Our 
guide,  with  a  few  hasty  directions  as  to  what  we 
must  see  next,  had  hurried  off  to  get  ready  for 
his  drill.  "  Think  of  commencement,  with  all  the 
pretty  girls  and  all  these  fine  young  fellows, 
and  this  place — they  must  all  be  engaged  before 
the  night  is  over." 

On  either  wing  the  terraces  overlook  walled 
gardens,  shadowed  by  magnolias,  sweet  with  rose 
and  jessamine  when  June  blooms,  full  now  of 
paler  spring  blossoms.  Vines  float  and  sway  from 
the  stone  ballustrades,  birds  sing.  Down  The 
Lawn  the  lovely  vistas  extend,  column  and  arch  and 
stately  portico,  warm  with  the  pinkish  and  ivory 
tones  of  rough-cast  brick  and  marble  and  stone  of 
softer  grain  but  as  tender  a  hue.  To  the  west 
and  east,  parallelling  the  dormitories  known  as  The 
Lawns,  are  the  second  rows  of  dormitories,  called 
the  Ranges.  They  are  like  The  Lawn,  except 
that  for  columns  they  have  brick  arches.  Between 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

are  the  gardens,  separated  by  brick  walls.  These 
walls,  fulfilling  some  charming  fancy,  are  ser- 
pentine instead  of  straight,  producing  an  elusively 
playful  effect  on  the  serious  beauty  of  the  place 
that  is  like  the  sunlight  dancing  on  the  columns. 

Number  13,  in  the  West  Range,  is  the  room 
where  Poe  lived  while  a  student,  and  after  his 
quarrel  with  his  room  mate,  Miles  George,  who 
lived  in  the  West  Lawn.  Over  a  small  door 
is  this  inscription: 

Edgar  Allan  Poe's  Room 

MDCCCXXVI 
Domus  parva  Magni  Poeta? 

The  brick  arches  are  lightly  plastered  over, 
after  the  Tuscan  fashion,  in  these  Ranges.  Each 
little  home  adjoins  its  neighbour;  each  is  entered 
through  a  door  opening  on  the  arcade,  and  each 
looks  out  upon  a  garden  through  a  window  in 
the  rear.  Occasional  passages  passing  from  the 
Lawns  to  the  Ranges  serve  to  connect  the  two, 
giving  the  passerby  fascinating  glimpses  of 
greenery — it  was  a  place  where  a  poet  might  be 
happy,  even  such  a  poet  as  Poe.  But  his  life 
there,  as  elsewhere,  was  stormy  and  broken  by 
his  own  wild  spirit. 

On  the  east  side  the  East  Range  duplicates 
the  West.  They  also  have  their  Pavilions,  which 
in  older  times  were  mess  halls  and  rallying  places. 
The  Literary  Societies  for  which  the  University 

-4-20-*- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

is  famous  housed  in  two  of  the  Pavilions,  and  the 
Jefferson  Society  still  meets  in  the  central 
Pavilion  of  the  West  Range.  The  Washington 
Society  now  has  a  small,  temple-like  building  at 
the  north  end  of  the  East  Range,  but  once  it 
met  in  the  Pavilion  at  the  south  end  of  that 
Range.  These  societies,  and  the  later  Columbian, 
have  been  and  are  of  great  influence  in  the 
college  life.  At  one  time  they  were  discouraged 
by  the  authorities  of  the  University  under  the 
conviction  that  they  abused  their  privileges;  but 
this  opposition  has  long  vanished. 

As  the  institution  has  continued  to  grow  other 
dormitories  have  had  to  be  found.  Dawson's  Row, 
built  in  1859,  in  the  arc  of  a  circle,  follows  the 
plan  of  the  earlier  buildings,  but  Randall,  south 
of  East  Range,  though  of  the  prevailing  brick 
and  stone  construction,  is  two  storied  and  with 
room  for  many  men. 

There  are  other  dormitories  and  a  mess  hall 
on  Carr's  Hill,  north  of  the  Rotunda.  We, 
wanting  to  see  the  drilling  in  the  amphitheatre, 
the  athletic  field  with  its  mighty  arc  of  seats  and 
effect  of  a  Roman  circus,  turned  our  backs  on  The 
Lawn,  and  found  our  way  to  the  back  (really 
the  front)  of  the  Rotunda.  Two  vast  flights  of 
steps  lead  from  it,  the  first  ending  at  the  Plaza, 
where  once  the  Public  Hall  or  Annex,  stood,  the 
second  sweeping  down  to  the  street  that  separates 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

this  older  portion  of  the  grounds  from  the  athletic 
field  immediately  adjoining,  where  tennis  courts 
and  tracks  are  laid  out,  overlooked  by  the  Fayer- 
weather  Gymnasium,  a  handsome,  up-to-date 
structure,  with  a  Corinthian  Portico,  the  columns 
and  capitals  of  solid  stone,  conforming  in  its 
architecture  to  the  general  scheme,  and  containing 
everything  proper  to  its  purpose. 

To  the  left  of  the  Gym,  crowning  a  hill-slope, 
is  the  beautiful  home  of  the  President,  close 
crowded  by  fine  trees. 

Our  way  lay  on  past  the  Gym,  up  a  charming 
roadway.  Many  other  people  were  going  the 
same  way,  and  many  of  these  were  girls,  pretty 
girls  too,  with  Southern  voices  and  alluring  ways 
of  moving  and  laughing.  Down  in  the  roadway 
marched  companies  of  the  college  men,  not  all 
in  khaki,  since  all  the  uniforms  had  not  arrived— 
the  rush  of  student  enthusiasm  was  too  eager  for 
the  University  to  keep  abreast  of  it  in  her 
preparations. 

There  is  hardly  so  moving  a  sight  on  earth  as 
that  of  the  young  and  joyous  running  to  arms 
in  the  service  of  their  country.  Hundreds  upon 
hundreds,  here  they  came,  in  a  long,  swinging 
stride,  active,  straight,  vivid.  "  One,  two,  three, 
four,"  the  sharp  count  rang  along  the  lines.  In 
through  the  arched  entrances  to  the  Stadium  they 
wheeled,  line  by  line.  And  we  followed,  to  group 

-i-22-e- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

ourselves  on  the  low,  broad  step-seats  of  the 
Stadium,  and  watch  them  march  and  counter- 
march, turn,  stop,  rush  off  at  double  quick,  now 
in  long  lines  across  the  noble  field,  now  four  by 
four.  And  the  hour  flew  by  for  us  who  looked 
as  quickly  as  for  the  training  boys. 

"  That's  my  brother,  that  one  next  the  end," 
a  tall,  dark-eyed  girl  remarked  to  Sister.  "  Aren't 
they  doing  well? "  Her  eyes  shone  as  the  lookers 
on  applauded  a  difficult  evolution.  "  Almost  all 
the  men  are  in  it — don't  they  look  nice  in  khaki? 
I  reckon  those  who  haven't  joined  feel  pretty  bad, 
don't  you?  But  of  course  some  just  couldn't." 

"Do  you  want  him  to  go  to  war?"  asked 
Sister. 

The  girl  glanced  at  her.  "  Why,  I  don't  know," 
she  said,  slowly.  "  Seems  natural  for  a  Virginian 
to  go  to  war.  ..." 

They  marched  the  lads  back  and  disbanded 
them  on  the  Plaza  before  the  Rotunda,  company 
by  company.  Off  they  ran,  down  the  steps,  across 
the  road,  laughing,  shouting 

"D'you  see  me  get  all  balled  up?  .    .    ." 

'  Tom'll  never  learn  to  keep  step.   ..." 

"Wish  those  uniforms  would  get  here  .  .  ." 
their  gay  voices  rang  through  the  evening,  their 
feet  clattered,  they  shoved  each  other  about  or 
hurried,  linking  arms. 

"  The  South  seems  to  be  turning  out  a  pretty 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

good  line  in  sons,"  I  remarked,  as  we  watched 
them  scatter. 

Up  there  in  the  Rotunda,  many  years  ago, 
Lafayette  had  been  given  a  dinner,  after  a  parade 
through  the  streets  of  Charlottesville  remarkable 
for  pomp  and  colour.  To-day  Joffre  was  in 
Washington,  with  Lafayette's  name  on  his  lips; 
once  again  Frenchman  and  American  were  to 
fight  side  by  side. 

We  walked  slowly  down  The  Lawn  toward 
Administration.  Built  as  it  is,  on  the  slope  of 
the  hill,  you  enter  on  the  second  story.  One 
flight  below  is  the  parquet  of  the  auditorium, 
one  flight  up  the  gallery.  Here  the  college  exer- 
cises are  held,  and  portraits  of  the  founders  dec- 
orate the  walls,  notably  one  of  Jefferson.  In 
the  lobby  is  the  bronze  memorial  tablet  commem- 
orating the  fire  and  the  restoration  of  the  old 
buildings,  with  the  building  of  the  three  new 
ones,  all  by  the  same  architects.  The  heading  to 
the  statement  is  the  line  "E'en  in  our  ashes  live 
our  wonted  fires."  But,  as  Sister  said,  that  is 
not  meant  to  be  taken  literally! 

Administration  and  the  two  buildings  that 
flank  it,  the  Scientific  and  Mechanics,  are  joined 
by  curving  pergolas  that  give  on  the  charming 
view  of  the  hill  and  valley,  on  the  great  oaks  that 
mark  Virginia  so  nobly,  and  on  glimpses  of  the 
town.  The  twenty  years  elapsed  since  the  build- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

ings  were  finished  have  mellowed  brick  and  stone 
to  the  look  of  age — the  century  that  has  gone 
since  the  first  corner  stone  was  laid  seems  to  have 
passed  over  each  fa$ade  facing  in  upon  The 
Lawn — the  harmony  is  complete.  Only  the 
trees  are  young.  It  was  Jefferson's  idea  that 
the  classic  severity  should  not  be  softened  by  a 
tree,  and  for  long  The  Lawn  was  unshaded. 
Then  locusts  were  planted,  and  finally  the  two 
double  rows  of  maples  that  now  stand  there. 
Fine,  well-grown  trees,  full  of  lusty  life  and 
beauty. 

The  honour  system  has  always  been  in  vogue 
in  the  University  of  Virginia.  A  man's  word  is 
unquestioned  by  the  Faculty.  Very  few  are  the 
cases  where  this  trust  has  been  misplaced.  A 
student  puts  his  signature  to  his  examination 
papers  stating  that  the  work  has  been  honestly 
done.  In  the  rare  instances  when  there  has  been 
cheating  the  Faculty  has  never  taken  action.  The 
students  took  up  the  matter.  There  is  no  rough 
handling;  the  offender  is  "simply  made  aware  of 
the  existence  of  a  strong  public  sentiment  which 
makes  it  impossible  for  a  man  to  stain  his  honour 
and  remain  a  student  of  the  University  of 
Virginia." 

"  This  seems  to  me  a  spot  where  one  would 
be  glad  to  have  one's  son,"  said  Sister.  "  Here, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  the  soul  of  Jefferson  incarnate." 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

The  sun  was  setting  as  we  made  our  way  back 
to  the  New  Gleason,  past  the  Corners,  where 
students  crowded  for  the  evening  mail.  Along 
the  quiet  street  mocking-birds  sang  in  the  old 
gardens,  a  tangle  of  music,  silver-sweet.  Then 
we  crossed  the  railway  bridge  and  enchantment 
fell  away. 

But  in  the  hotel  we  had  a  supper  that  was 
worth  eating,  with  corn  pone  and  ham  and  greens 
and  hominy  and  coffee  that  was  comfortingly  clear 
and  strong.  The  coloured  boy  who  took  our 
orders  was  deeply  interested  in  seeing  that  we 
got  just  what  we  wanted,  and  begged  us  to  take 
a  little  more  of  each  dish.  He  even  insisted  on 
bringing  poached  eggs  to  augment  what  he  con- 
sidered too  slight  an  order.  And  we  ate  them. 
We  couldn't  have  hurt  his  feelings  by  leaving 
them. 

Afterwards  we  chatted  with  the  young  lady 
at  the  desk. 

*  You  ought  to  see  Monticello,"  she  told  us. 
"  No,  you  couldn't  walk  it — I  did  once,  but  never 
again.  It's  only  about  three  miles  to  the  gate, 
but  after  that  it's  miles  and  miles.  But  it  makes 
a  nice  drive,  and  the  woods  are  fine  now.  They've 
been  talking  of  buying  it  for  the  Nation,  like 
Mount  Vernon  .  .  .  it's  a  mighty  pretty 
place." 

We  asked  her  whether  there  were  any  special 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

haunts  in  town  that  attracted  the  college  boys, 
but  she  appeared  to  know  of  none.  '*  The  Uni- 
versity holds  about  everything  the  students  want," 
she  thought.  "  Of  course  they  go  to  the  Corners, 
and  visit  folk  in  town,  but  we  don't  see  much  of 
them.  I  reckon  the  men  who  are  in  Virginia 
University  are  there  to  work,  not  to  play  'round," 
she  concluded. 

We  decided  to  drive  to  Jefferson's  home  the 
following  afternoon.  And  went  again  to  our 
informant  for  news  of  where  to  spend  the 
morning. 

6  You  might  go  and  see  the  college  cemetery 
and  the  old  Confederate  burying  ground  next  it, 
and  so  up  to  the  Observatory.  That  will  make  a 
nice  walk,"  she  told  us. 

A  soft,  warm  morning,  with  a  silvery  haze  over 
the  blue  hills  and  veiling  the  broad  fields  that  lie 
along  the  river.  Before  going  to  the  cemeteries 
we  decided  to  see  a  little  of  Charlottesville. 
Though  the  first  impression  of  the  town  is  not 
attractive,  the  place  is  really  charming.  Small 
and  old,  surrounded  by  farm-lands,  the  farm 
houses  built  on  the  crests  of  the  swelling  hills, 
and  almost  invariably  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
splendid  oaks,  the  streets  merge  into  country  roads 
almost  imperceptibly.  That  is,  those  which  don't 
end  in  an  impasse.  For  many  a  fine  broad  street 
we  took  led  only  to  some  house  in  fine  grounds 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

barring  further  progress;  and  we  trapesed  back 
the  way  we  came,  but  contentedly,  for  beautiful 
trees  shaded  our  way  and  there  were  unending 
views  across  the  valleys,  with  their  rich  crim- 
son soil  or  new,  vivid  green.  Many  a  splendid 
Colonial  house  still  stands  in  the  old  town, 
with  Greek  portico  and  stately  pillars.  There 
are  many  houses  of  brick,  almost  none  of 
wood. 

But  we  couldn't  find  the  river! 

"  Here  is  a  town  'picturesquely  situated  on  the 
Rapidan,'  and  we  can't  see  hide  nor  hair  of  a 
stream,"  I  complained.  "  Yet  it  seems  idiotic  to 
go  up  to  a  citizen  and  ask  him  for  a  river." 

But  we  had  to.  We  walked  here  and  we 
walked  there,  and  not  so  much  as  a  gleam  of 
running  water  rewarded  us. 

He  was  old  and  very  Southern  in  appearance, 
and  he  enjoyed  talking. 

"  The  Rapidan?  Why,  it's  some  ways  along, 
ladies."  He  directed  us  minutely,  and  then  asked 
us  what  we  thought  of  the  war. 

"  We've  got  to  get  those  Prussians  beaten,"  he 
began.  "  I  fought  through  the  war  here  and  I 
don't  care  for  any  more  fighting,  but  it  looks  like  it 
has  to  be  done.  You-all  visited  the  University? " 

Thrilling  with  delight  at  the  you-all  we  told 
him  we  had. 

"  Our  blood  and  sweat's  gone  into  it,"  he  said 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

slowly,  taking  off  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and 
mopping  his  forehead  to  give  point  to  the  state- 
ment. "It's  a  fine  place;  but  the  war  set  us 
back  a  whole  lot." 

He  was  explaining  to  us  the  policy  of  the 
Central  Powers  when  we  broke  away — for  time 
was  flying,  though  no  one  in  the  South  acts  as 
if  this  were  a  fact.  We  found  that  the  river 
itself,  for  all  the  hasty  significance  of  its  name, 
moved  with  a  casual  slowness  under  the  bridge 
which  we  attained  at  last.  Willows  bent  above 
the  stream,  fields  full  of  buttercups  spread  back 
from  it,  and  on  surrounding  hills  picturesque 
pines  aided  the  oaks  in  the  scheme  of  decoration. 
While  we  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  water  several 
drivers  passed  us,  on  their  way  to  town  from 
the  country  districts.  Not  one  but  held  the  lines 
over  a  horse  showing  traces  of  blood  and  breeding. 
Virginia  loves  horses,  and  here,  where  the  great 
lover  of  a  good  horse  lived  so  much  of  his  life, 
a  fine  animal  or  none  at  all  seems  to  be  the  rule. 
Jefferson  did  a  great  deal  to  improve  the  breed 
in  this  part  of  the  state,  and  though  he  never 
raced  a  horse,  he  loved  to  drive  a  fast  trotter 
or  ride  a  steeple-chaser. 

For  our  drive  to  the  old  home  of  the  statesman 
we  secured  a  charming  bay,  and  took  turns  with 
the  lines.  The  red-dust  roads  were  firm  and 
smooth,  the  trees  continuous,  and  once  past  the 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

lodge  at  the  entrance  to  Monticello,  the  drive 
swept  upward  to  the  top  of  the  sugar  loaf  hill  in 
gracious  curves,  with  constant  outlooks  over  the 
country  below. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  an  easier  job  on  earth  than 
learning  to  love  Virginia,"  declared  Sister.  "  Just 
look  at  those  sheets  of  dogwood  under  the  pines! 
And  hear  the  cardinals !  And  remember  that  over 
this  delightful  road  Jefferson  used  to  ride  every 
day  to  visit  his  beloved  University.  Bad  weather, 
unless  it  was  very  bad  indeed,  couldn't  stop  him. 
The  tall,  gallant,  happy  man,  who  was  said  to  go 
singing  and  humming  about  his  work,  and  never 
to  be  idle,  and  who  watched  over  every  detail  of 
his  estate  with  such  exquisite  care.  It  is  good 
to  know  such  things  have  happened,  and  it  is 
good  to  look  around  here  and  see  the  relics  of  it, 
kept  so  beautifully.  Virginia  makes  you  feel  at 
home.  ..." 

Jefferson's  classic  taste  found  full  expression  in 
the  house  he  built,  with  its  domed  roof  and 
columns,  placed  so  well  among  the  trees  and 
gardens  on  the  hilltop.  A  couple  of  youths  on 
horseback,  probably  students,  were  idling  along, 
chatting  and  pointing.  This  was  the  sort  of 
ramble  a  boy  could  profit  by.  The  man  who  had 
built  this  house,  with  its  fine,  reserved  beauty,  was 
a  heritage  to  every  student  in  the  University. 
They  had  their  literary  societies  and  their  Greek 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

letter  societies,  and  they  had  too  this  influence  left 
behind  by  a  great,  simple  and  generous  spirit. 
It  is  with  emotion  that  you  look  about  you  at 
Monticello. 

"  Everything  best  in  American  tradition  meets 
here,"  I  remarked,  as  we  drove  slowly  away. 
"And  tradition  is  worth  while — it  must  give  a 
noble  quality  to  those  it  touches  as  it  must  touch 
every  boy  who  is  educated  here." 

Our  time  was  drawing  to  an  end,  and  we  had 
not  yet  visited  the  college  burial  ground.  But  the 
afternoon  was  only  just  waning  as  we  returned, 
our  bay  still  full  of  playfulness,  and  sauntered 
off  toward  the  University,  and  the  little  walk 
under  the  oaks  that  led  to  the  quietest  of  grave- 
yards. 

White  and  blue  periwinkle  carpeted  the  ground 
under  the  cedars  and  the  ivy  grew  thick  over  the 
ancient  stones  and  simple  marble  crosses.  Here 
was  nothing  of  pomp  and  ostenation.  A  few 
old  English  tombs  with  carven  sides  and  tops. 
An  urn  on  a  column,  half  hidden  in  green 
leaves,  simple  rounded  headstones  with  names 
great  in  the  story  of  Virginia — a  place  now 
of  singing  birds,  who  were  nesting  every- 
where. 

Beyond,  under  oaks,  with  the  wild  flowers 
growing  over  them,  was  the  place  where  the 
Confederate  soldiers  rested.  A  bronze  figure  in 

-1-31-*- 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

the  centre  commemorated  these  heroes  of  the  lost 
cause,  lying  at  the  very  foot  of  Mt.  Jefferson. 
Little  paths  led  among  the  graves.  A  tender 
loveliness  brooded  throughout  the  space. 

Above,  at  the  top  of  the  little  mountain,  was 
the  Observatory,  containing  the  great  Clark 
refractor.  It  is  called  after  its  chief  donor, 
McCormick  of  Chicago,  and  is  very  complete. 
Vanderbilt  also  gave  a  large  sum  toward  its 
building.  Jefferson  had  selected  the  site,  but  was 
unable  to  install  more  than  an  apology  for  an 
observatory  at  the  time. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  neither  money  nor 
social  standing  cut  much  of  a  figure  in  this  great 
and  growing  University.  There  is  nothing  to 
spend  money  on;  the  woods  and  fields,  the  quiet 
stream,  the  mild  excitements  of  the  Corners  are 
all  that  call  to  the  student,  and  none  of  these  asks 
money.  No  honourary  degrees  have  been  given 
by  the  University,  which  confers  its  honours  only 
for  work  done.  Character  is  what  counts,  and 
every  boy  who  enters  feels  that  in  the  first  week 
of  his  life  there.  Athletics  are  eagerly  followed, 
and  the  publications  of  the  students  show  real 
enthusiasm  and  marked  literary  ability.  There  is 
nothing  slack,  nothing  wasteful. 

As  we  walked  homeward  to  the  hotel,  round  by 
way  of  the  tennis  courts,  we  heard  some  of  the 


JEFFERSON'S  COLLEGE 

young  fellows  giving  the  college  yell:  a  good  yell, 
and  reaching  far: 

WAH-HOO-WAH 

WAH-HOO-WAH 

U-NI-V-VIRGINIA 
HOO-RAH-RAY 

HOO-RAH-RAY 
RAY-RAY 
U-V-A 


-i-33 


CHAPTER  II 

William  and  Mary 

RICHMOND  is  only  an  hour  from  Williamsburg, 
and  I  don't  believe  any  one  ever  had  the  heart 
to  go  through  Richmond  without  stopping  off  if 
there  was  even  the  faintest  shadow  of  an  excuse. 
Naturally  the  students  from  William  and  Mary 
come  to  Richmond  for  contact  with  the  great 
world — for  though  Williamsburg  is  one  of  the 
oldest  places  in  America  it  is  as  quiet  as  it  is 
old,  and  the  college  boy  often  demands  more  of 
life  than  age  and  repose;  so  Sister  and  I  felt 
that  it  was  decidedly  necessary  to  get  a  look  at 
Richmond  before  continuing  down  the  James 
River  to  what  was,  for  a  brief  time,  the  old  capital 
of  Virginia. 

Richmond  has  a  Roman  proclivity  for  hills  and 
a  truly  Southern  passion  for  flowers  and  trees 
and  parks.  Its  up-and-downness  and  its  green- 
ness are  as  marked  as  its  historic  associations  with 
Washington,  Jefferson,  Patrick  Henry,  Jefferson 
Davis  and  Robert  E.  Lee.  Most  of  our  elder 
cities  can  lay  some  claim  to  one  or  two  of  these 
men.  But  Richmond  gathers  them  all  in,  and 
many  another.  Here  they  lived  or  here  they 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

met  in  mighty  converse.  There  they  died  or  there 
they  fought.  Old  church  or  beautiful  home,  public 
building  and  tomb,  stand  as  witnesses.  To  the 
Southerner  his  history  is  real  and  beloved.  In 
many  an  old  New  England  town  you  will  hardly 
find  a  soul  to  speak  of  the  past,  to  direct  you 
to  some  relic  of  vanished  deeds  or  to  remember 
the  names  that  wrote  themselves  into  its  story. 
Not  so  in  Virginia.  The  Revolutionary  picture 
yet  holds  its  vivid  colour,  and  as  for  the  Civil 
War,  we  began,  before  we  had  stayed  many  days 
in  the  Old  Dominion,  to  listen  for  the  echo  of  its 
drums  and  the  sound  of  its  marching. 

'*  We're  doing  pretty  well,"  said  an  ex-Con- 
federate soldier  who  walked  about  with  Sister  and 
me  in  the  picturesque  graveyard  of  the  church, 
St.  John's,  built  in  1741,  where  Patrick  Henry 
made  his  famous  "  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me 
death  "  speech.  "  We're  doing  all  right  now;  but 
that  war  we  fought  'bout  forty  years  or  so  ago 
set  us  back  a  long  way."  Forty  or  sixty  years, 
what  matter?  It  was  nearer  forty  days  to  his 
memory. 

Richmond,  with  one  other  city  I  know,  Paris, 
has  charm.  It  is  a  totally  different  variety  of 
charm,  but  it's  there.  You  feel  it  immediately, 
and  it  grows  more  imminent  with  every  day  that 
passes,  capturing  you  as  charm  always  does. 
There  are  many  reasons  for  finding  Richmond 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

beautiful  and  attractive;  Capitol  Square  alone, 
with  the  Capitol  designed — of  course — by  Thomas 
Jefferson,  is  sufficient.  But  that  plea  of  the 
Elizabethan  poet  to 

"  Love  me  still,  and  know  not  why, 
So  have  you  the  same  reason  yet  to  dote  upon 
me  ever" 

finds  ready  answer  in  Richmond.  You  ad- 
mire the  city  for  its  noble,  tree  shaded 
streets,  its  Colonial  buildings,  dignified  and 
gracious  as  some  dame  of  high  degree,  its  far-flung 
views  of  winding  river  and  characteristic  country; 
you  like  its  habit  of  leisure  that  is  neither  lazy 
nor  shiftless,  and  your  heart  opens  to  its  citizens, 
who  make  you  feel  that  Richmond,  being  their 
home,  is  yours  also.  But  behind  or  within  these 
compelling  reasons  is  an  undefined  and  powerful 
quality  more  compelling  still,  and  which  is  simply 
the  charm. 

We  suffered  a  severe  disappointment  in  the  city, 
none  the  less.  We  had  had,  to  be  sure,  a  taste  of 
corn  pone  in  Charlottesville.  But  it  had  arrived 
late  in  the  meal  and  our  enthusiasm  was  over. 
We  wanted  more.  We  asked,  wherever  we  went, 
for  corn  pone.  The  marble  magnificence  of  the 
Jefferson  knew  it  not;  the  little  lunch  rooms  on 
Broad  Street  refused  it;  it  did  not  occur  at  any 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

meal  served  in  those  homes  where  we  were,  other- 
wise, happy  guests. 

"  Can  we  have  some  corn  pone?  "  Sister  asked 
it  of  the  friend  who  was  giving  us  luncheon  in 
the  Hotel  Richmond. 

Any  other  day,  possibly.  But  not  that  day. 
It  was  not  on  the  bill,  to  the  waiter's  regret. 

Then  Sister  told  how  she  made  it  at  home,  and 
how  good  it  was.  "  But  I  did  want  to  eat  the 
real  Southern  pone,  and  maybe  get  some  hints 
as  to  how  it's  made.  I've  got  the  cornmeal, 
beautiful,  golden  yellow  meal  that  I  send  away 
for " 

Both  of  us  noticed  the  extraordinary  expression 
that  swept  the  face  of  our  host.  It  was  fleeting, 
but  in  it  mingled  a  world  of  protest,  of  wonder,  a 
shuddering  horror,  a  frantic  effort  at  concealment, 
with  other  to  us  unexplainable  emotions. 

"  It's  no  use,"  we  said,  "  something  terrible  has 
happened.  What  is  it?  " 

At  last  we  got  it  out  of  him.    Yellow  cornmeal! 

It  seems  that  yellow  cornmeal  is  only  fit  to  feed 
to  horses.  No  Southerner  ever  touches  it.  White, 
white  as  the  sand  on  India's  coral  strand,  it  must 
be,  sweet,  water  ground,  so  that  it  is  never  sub- 
jected to  heat  till  it's  made  into  pone,  an  ethereal, 
exquisite  substance,  with  a  flavour — the  moment 
when  a  Frenchman  would  have  kissed  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  and  sent  that  kiss  afloat  with  an  in- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

comparable  gesture  had  arrived.  The  Southerner 
met  it  differently: 

"  I  reckon  you  No'therners  don't  rightly  under- 
stand what  corn  pone  is,"  he  concluded. 

So  far  as  Richmond  goes,  we  never  had  a 
chance  to  find  out — we  only  discovered  what  it 
wasn't. 

But  we  must  be  on  our  way  to  Williamsburg — 
and  how  to  go? 

"  What  you  want  to  do  is  to  take  the  boat 
down  the  river  to  Jamestown,  and  then  get  across 
to  Williamsburg,"  we  were  told.  And  the  beauty 
of  that  trip  was  extolled  in  no  uncertain  phrases. 
Past  famous  Westover  and  Brandon,  and  Shirley, 
ancestral  home  of  the  Carter  family,  the  boat 
would  take  us.  Hour  after  hour  the  green  and 
lovely  banks  would  unroll  as  the  river  swept 
along.  And  perhaps  we  should  find  something 
to  take  us  to  Williamsburg  at  Jamestown;  some- 
times there  was  an  automobile  to  be  hired,  more 
often  not. 

"  But  they'll  get  you  over  some  way,"  we  were 
assured. 

It  sounded  tempting.  To  be  sure,  when  we 
discovered  that  the  boat  left  at  an  hour  which 
meant  breakfast  at  five,  my  ardour  fell  about 
eighty-five  per  cent,  though  Sister  was  still  strong 
for  the  trip.  And  then  fate  stepped  in.  The 
boat  only  ran  every  other  morning,  and  it  didn't 

-+•38-*- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

run  our  morning.  So  we  took  the  highly  con- 
venient train. 

The  conductors  on  Southern  railways  have  the 
manners,  and  many  doubtless  the  blood,  of  the 
F.  F.  Vs.  They  take  your  ticket  from  you  as 
though  it  were  a  privilege  of  no  mean  kind  to 
accept  the  offering.  They  will  not  permit  you  to 
carry  your  suitcase  an  inch,  and  they  are  solicitous 
that  you  should  find  seats  on  the  shady  side. 

"  It  gives  you  a  sort  of  Alice  in  Wonderland 
feeling,"  sighed  Sister,  as  we  settled  ourselves. 
"  Is  the  subway  really  in  the  same  world? " 

The  country,  in  its  springtime  heyday,  flowed 
past,  cultivated  tracts  alternating  with  marshes 
starred  with  wild  flowers.  Splendid  oaks  led  the 
processions  of  the  trees,  topping  the  slight  rises, 
crowned  with  farmhouses,  and  standing  in  stately 
groups  where  the  fields  opened  out.  Pine  and 
dogwood  contended  for  the  dominating  note  of 
dark  or  white,  making  a  Japanese  effect  of  form 
and  contrast.  Occasionally  we  got  a  touch  of 
local  colour  in  a  negro  driving  a  two-wheeled  cart 
drawn  by  bullocks,  or  a  group  of  pickanninies 
watching  the  train  go  by. 

"  All  out  heah  for  Williamsburg,"  observed  the 
brakeman,  softly  but  clearly. 

"  Let's  check  our  bags  and  walk  over  to  the 
village  and  look  over  the  land  before  we  decide 
where  to  go,"  I  proposed.  "Maybe  we'll  like 

-i-39-f- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

one  hotel  better  than  another,  and  anyway  we 
want  to  be  fairly  close  to  the  college." 

There  was  a  peculiar  contraption  in  the  station 
of  the  penny  in  the  slot  variety.  You  put  a  dime 
in  one  place  and  got  a  key  and  that  unlocked  a 
door  and  into  the  space  beyond  you  slipped  your 
baggage,  locked  the  door  and  departed.  But  what 
if  you  lost  the  key? 

A  lovely  country  road,  grass  and  buttercup 
edged,  drew  away  from  the  station  between  walls 
and  fences  hung  with  vines,  wistaria  among  them, 
hanging  its  pale  lavender  tassels  in  riotous  pro- 
fusion over  rail  or  ancient  brick,  and  spreading 
broadcast  its  delicate  fragrance.  Birds  sang 
wildly  in  the  golden  sunlight. 

A  little  way  we  walked  and  found  ourselves  on 
what  was  evidently  the  village  green.  It  was  a 
solid  golden  sheet  of  buttercups  edged  with  mighty 
trees,  under  whose  boughs  nestled  old  houses  of 
brick  and  of  wood,  standing  within  gardens  as 
old  as  themselves.  Across  from  us  a  long,  grey, 
rambling,  delightful  haphazard  building  marked 
the  eastern  boundary  of  the  green — Court  Green. 
A  sign  on  this  building  informed  us  that  it  was 
the  Colonial  Inn. 

"  There  is  our  home  for  the  next  few  days," 
Sister  said.  "  Nothing  shall  move  me  from  that 
position." 

An   amazing  number   of   men   in  khaki   were 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

crossing  hither  and  thither,  and  crowding  the  long 
and  wide  Duke  of  Gloucester  Street  on  which  our 
Inn  faced.  Were  they  all  martial  college  youths? 
No.  These  were  regulars,  no  mistaking  that  fact. 

We  made  our  way  into  the  office,  but  no  one 
was  at  the  desk.  Khaki  filled  the  room.  We 
seemed  to  be  the  only  women  in  the  world!  A 
world  of  soldiers. 

"  Let's  wander  about  and  see  if  we  can  find  just 
a  plain  ordinary  man  to  ask  questions  of,"  I 
proposed. 

But  just  then  a  youth,  anxious  inquiry  in  his 
eyes,  rushed  up  to  us.  We  wanted  a  room,  and 
we  wanted  lunch. 

"  Come  into  the  library,"  he  begged  us,  "  and 
I'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

We  followed  him  into  an  adorable  old  room, 
with  a  fire  of  logs  crackling  on  the  hearth,  books 
in  cases  round  the  walls,  comfortable  old  chairs 
drawn  round  the  hearth,  quaint  ornaments  on 
shelf  and  mantelpiece.  A  spinet  stood  in  one 
corner,  a  huge  bunch  of  daffodils  shone  in  another. 

We  exchanged  a  look  of  rapture. 
'  There's  a  regiment  of  Marines  in  town,"  our 
guide  informed  us,  "more  than  six  hundred,  and 
the  band's  quartered  with  us.  But  I  reckon  we 
can  find  a  room  for  you  two  ladies  somehow." 
He  disappeared. 

"  So  that's  who  they  are!    Uncle  Sam's  Marines 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

-They  go  first!"  remarked  Sister.  "What 
larks!  Probably  there  will  be  a  parade.  I 
wonder  where  the  rest  of  the  six  hundred,  who 
aren't  the  band,  are  put  up.  This  seems  to  be 
the  one  place  in  town." 

We  found  out  later.  They  camped  in  their 
little  dog  tents  on  the  University  Athletic  Field, 
rows  and  rows  of  khaki  shelters  that  didn't  look 
big  enough  to  cover  a  large-sized  Newfoundland, 
let  alone  a  Marine,  all  of  whom  seemed  to  run 
to  extra  sizes  as  men  go. 

Now  our  host  entered,  and  bade  us  welcome 
with  a  truly  Southern  grace  and  distinction.  Yes, 
we  could  have  a  room,  and  yes,  it  should  look 
out  on  Court  Green — for  we  wanted  that.  Those 
buttercups ! 

So  we  surrendered  the  keys  that  guarded  our 
suitcases,  and  went  in  to  lunch.  The  long,  low 
room  was  filled  with  officers  and  their  wives, 
besides,  at  one  table,  the  band  in  its  blue  uniform. 
A  gay  sight.  Rather  overpowered  looking  black 
waiters  hurried  about,  doing  their  best.  Probably 
the  Inn  had  not  had  to  meet  such  an  emergency 
since  the  days  of  the  Jamestown  Exposition,  but 
it  was  standing  the  test  gallantly.  We  were 
served  promptly,  and  always  with  that  effect  of 
being  personally  and  attentively  looked  after  that 
kept  its  pleasant  palpability  about  us  throughout 
our  Virginian  visit. 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

Before  delivering  our  letter  of  introduction 
from  a  friend  in  Richmond  to  President  Tyler 
of  William  and  Mary  we  thought  it  better  to  go 
wandering  through  the  old  town  itself,  and  get 
hold  of  the  local  colour.  Rain  clouds  were  be- 
ginning to  pile  up,  and  we  wanted  to  do  our 
tramping  before  the  weather  had  a  chance  to  show 
what  water  could  do  with  the  red  soil  of  the 
roads. 

Williamsburg  is  constructed  on  a  simple  plan. 
There  are  three  long,  broad  streets  running  east 
and  west,  seven  or  eight  or  more,  shorter  and  not 
so  wide,  crossing  at  right  angles.  The  names 
savour  of  the  days  when  the  English  settled 
Virginia;  in  New  England  the  towns  changed 
their  English  names  after  the  Revolution,  but 
conservative  Virginia  kept  hers.  So  besides  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  there  are  King,  Queen  and 
England  streets  among  the  names.  A  small  guide 
book  told  us  to  begin  our  pilgrimmage  at  the  Inn, 
which  we  couldn't  very  well  help  doing.  Turning 
to  the  left,  we  first  went  up  the  street  to  the 
site  of  the  old  capitol,  on  a  circular  green,  the 
street  bifurcating  and  sweeping  round  to  right 
and  left. 

Now  nothing  but  the  stone  foundations  of  the 
fine  building  that  stood  here  in  all  the  glory  of 
Colonial  days  remains  to  gaze  upon.  We  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  stones  and  looked  down  the 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

street  to  the  college  campus  and  buildings,  veiled 
in  trees.  About  us  historic  interest  was  piled 
high.  From  1699,  when  the  capital  was  moved 
to  Williamsburg  from  Jamestown,  to  1779,  when 
it  betook  itself  to  Richmond,  the  laws  of  Virginia 
were  made  here,  and  here  the  governors  held  state. 
The  word  Capitol  was  used  for  the  first  time  in 
America  for  the  Williamsburg  building,  built  in 
the  form  of  an  H,  of  brick  and  stone.  Indeed, 
there  are  a  number  of  firsts  in  this  dreamy  old 
town,  as  we  found  later. 

It  was  in  this  capitol  that  Patrick  Henry,  in 
1765,  on  May  30,  denounced  the  Stamp  Act,  and 
presented  his  resolutions.  Eleven  years  later  the 
Virginia  Convention  passed  resolutions  urging  the 
Continental  Congress  to  declare  independence.  A 
fiery  and  energetic  group  of  men  kept  Williams- 
burg in  the  very  front  of  the  nation's  history 
during  all  the  long  struggle  for  freedom.  It 
was  no  sleepy  college  town  in  those  days  with  its 
eyes  on  the  past,  as  it  is  to-day,  but  the  wild- 
beating  heart  of  Virginian  patriotism. 

Round  about  this  ancient  site  are  some  of  the 
oldest  and  finest  of  the  Colonial  houses  that  give 
the  town  its  character.  Untouched,  perfectly  pre- 
served, lived  in  to-day  as  throughout  the  long 
years,  these  brick  or  wooden  houses,  with  their 
dormer  windows,  stand  within  their  walled 
gardens,  brick  paths  leading  from  gate  to  grace- 


1 

« 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

ful  doorway,  and  on  each  door  shines  a  bright 
brass  knocker  and  plate.  Here  looking  like  a 
New  England  house  is  the  home  of  Peyton 
Randolph,  first  President  of  the  Continental 
Congress,  and  a  short  way  further  on  Basset 
Hall,  at  the  end  of  a  long  lane  of  trees,  spreads 
its  noble  proportions.  Here  lived  Tyler,  later 
President  of  the  United  States.  Once  the  famous 
Raleigh  Tavern  stood  where  now  a  little  shop 
faces  on  Duke  of  Gloucester  Street. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  scrumptious  sight  in  the 
old  days  here,"  Sister  said.  "  Isn't  there  a  picture 
in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  that  shows  the  old 
church  here,  Bruton  Parish  Church,  with  stately 
men  in  full-bottomed  coats  and  cocked  hats,  afoot 
and  on  horseback,  greeting  each  other  and  the 
beautiful  highborn  ladies  sitting  in  a  coach?  We 
must  see  that  church." 

But  I  was  not  to  be  outdone  with  this  display 
of  cultured  knowledge. 

"Did  you  know,"  I  asked  coldly,  "that  Tom 
Moore,  of  distinguished  fame  as  a  poet  and  a 
lover,  once  stayed  right  there  in  Basset  Hall? 
And  that  there  he  wrote  his  poem  to  the  Firefly, 
never  having  seen  fireflies  till  he  got  here,  on  a 
night  of  May?" 

"  There's  one  comfort,"  responded  Sister. 
"  Between  us  we  know  everything!  " 

I  had  found  the  song  in  the  library  of  the  Inn 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

that  very  day,  but  I  didn't  think  this  was  worth 
telling.    Instead  I  murmured  the  first  verse: 

"At  morning  when  the  earth  and  sky 
Are  glowing  in  the  light  of  spring, 
We  see  thee  not,  thou  humble  fly, 
Nor  think  upon  thy  gleaming  wing/' 

"  No  one  would  dare  write  a  stanza  like  that 
nowadays,"  I  mused.  "  Yet  how  sweetly  pretty." 

*  The  day  when  the  sweetly  pretty  was  popu- 
larly acclaimed  is  over,"  agreed  Sister.  "  Even 
a  girl  needs  more  than  that  to  make  her  a  success. 
But  is  there  not  more  to  be  seen? " 

"  Thomas  Jefferson  announced  many  years  ago 
that  '  The  only  public  buildings  in  the  Colony 
worthy  of  mention  are  the  capitol,  the  palace,  the 
college  and  the  hospital  for  lunatics,"1  said  I. 
"All  are  gone  except  the  college.  At  least,  the 
hospital  was  rebuilt  after  1885,  this  foundation 
remains  of  the  capitol,  and  on  the  site  of  the 
palace  now  stands  the  Whaley  School,  used  by 
the  college  to  train  its  scholars  in  the  art  of 
teaching.  Yet  there  are  things  worth  seeing." 

"  What  a  Hun  fire  is,"  Sister  remarked.  "  I 
believe  Jefferson  criticised  the  proportions  and 
ornaments  of  the  capitol,  but  a  minister  who  lived 
here,  the  Rev.  Hugh  Jones,  announced  that  it 
was  the  'best  and  most  commodious  Pile  of  its 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

Kind  that  he  ever  had  seen  or  heard  of.'  In 
1704  it  was  the  largest  and  handsomest  building 
anywhere  in  the  Colonies,  so  they  say.  And  when 
it  was  first  burned  down,  about  forty  years  later, 
the  governor  denounced  the  act  as  '  the  horrid 
machinations  of  desperate  villains  instigated  by 
infernal  madness.'  Anyhow,  it  is  vanished,  with 
not  a  wrack  behind,  unless  you  count  this  pattern 
on  the  grass,  and  the  monument  here." 

The  Association  for  the  Preservation  of  Vir- 
ginia Antiquities  has  set  up  this  monument,  with 
its  interesting  inscription,  telling  briefly  the  more 
famous  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  capitol.  Here, 
besides  the  speech  of  Henry,  that  according  to 
some  opinions  of  that  time  did  as  much  to 
bring  about  the  Revolution  as  any  other  single 
factor,  occurred  the  various  landmarks  along  the 
road  to  independence  marked  by  Dabney  Carr's 
Resolution  to  form  a  committee  to  confer  with 
similar  committees  from  the  other  colonies,  a  first 
step  toward  the  ultimate  union  of  the  states,  and 
later  the  Declaration  of  Rights,  the  work  of 
George  Mason,  followed  a  few  days  afterwards 
by  the  adoption  of  the  first  written  constitution 
of  a  free  and  independent  state  ever  framed. 

Not  far  from  the  capitol  used  to  stand  the  old 
prison,  described  by  a  writer  of  the  day  as  "a 
strong,  sweet  prison."  Here  the  wild  companions 
of  Black  Beard  the  pirate  were  confined,  and  from 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

here  they  went  to  their  execution.  Certainly, 
history  in  many  phases  has  been  made  on  this  little 
piece  of  earth. 

We  sauntered  up  the  street  toward  the  college, 
bewitched  by  the  old  houses  on  the  way,  almost 
every  one  of  them  an  exquisite  example  of 
the  best  period  of  the  eighteenth  century's  con- 
ception of  home  architecture.  A  little  way  beyond 
the  Inn  a  queer,  octagonal  building,  with  a  sharp- 
pointed  roof,  turned  out  to  be  the  Powder  Horn, 
where  powder  was  stored  in  Colonial  days.  When 
the  news  of  Lexington  came  to  Williamsburg,  the 
then  governor,  Lord  Dunmore,  had  the  powder 
taken  away  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  shipped 
aboard  a  ship  lying  at  Yorktown.  The  people 
of  the  town  were  furious,  and  made  a  great 
demonstration,  led  by  Patrick  Henry.  So  furious 
that  the  governor  followed  the  powder,  and  was 
never  again  seen  in  Virginia. 

The  Horn,  or  Magazine,  was  built  under 
Governor  Spotwood  in  1714,  and  probably  be- 
cause of  its  dangerous  contents,  never  did  catch 
fire.  It  is  practically  as  it  was  then,  but  now  is 
a  museum  for  antiquities,  under  the  protection  of 
the  same  Virginia  Society  whose  ministering  hand 
has  done  so  much  to  restore  or  to  preserve  what 
is  old  and  valuable  in  the  State. 

The  street,  as  we  drew  nearer  the  centre  of 
the  town,  grew  livelier  and  livelier.  Not  only  was 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

it  filled  with  the  khaki  of  the  Marines,  but  also 
crowded  with  darkies  in  all  sorts  of  ramshackle 
rigs  where  they  weren't  afoot.  Baskets  and  mani- 
fold chatter  accompanied  them.  It  was  market 
day,  in  fact.  Gay  bandannas  decorated  many  of 
the  women's  heads,  and  black  and  smiling  young- 
sters in  print  dresses  raced  about,  far  more  silent 
than  their  elders,  after  the  fashion  of  pickanninies. 
Vegetables  made  heaps  of  colour,  pushcarts  loaded 
with  candies,  oranges  and  other  sellable  things 
were  steered  about  dexterously  by  young  men  who 
shouted  gleefully  to  each  other  or  to  the  women. 

6  You-all  haveter  quit  this  f  oolin'  and  git  to  the 
war  soon,"  they  called,  vastly  amused  at  the  idea. 

Williamsburg  was  settled  in  1632,  and  then 
called  the  Middle  Plantations,  being  half-way 
between  Yorktown  and  Jamestown,  in  the  middle 
of  the  peninsula.  Whenever  there  has  been 
fighting  on  the  Continent,  Williamsburg  has  seen 
her  full  share  of  it.  "  We've  surely  known  what 
war  means  here,"  as  one  of  the  ladies  said  to  me 
later  on,  "  its  scars  are  with  us  to  this  day.  And 
are  we  to  have  our  dear  ones  taken  from  us  again? 
Why,  armies  have  marched  back  and  forth  over 
this  town  ever  since  Bacon's  Rebellion.  .  .  ." 

In  her  face  was  that  look  of  indefinite  sadness 
that  is  found  so  often  in  the  faces  of  Southern 
women  past  their  first  youth — a  heritage  perhaps, 
and,  who  knows,  a  prophecy  maybe?  The  care- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

less  negroes  laughed  at  the  idea.  But  the  woman 
of  the  South  can  never  laugh  at  the  threat  of  war. 
Can  you  imagine  a  Belgian  laughing  at  it,  even 
generations  hence? 

We  stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  at  a  small 
sulky  building,  hiding  behind  a  new  shop,  the  old 
Poor  Debtors'  prison,  and  then  crossed  the  street 
to  look  at  the  ancient  Court  House,  backing  on 
Court  Green,  said  to  have  been  designed  by 
Christopher  Wren.  The  fine  sweep  of  stone 
steps  that  leads  to  the  porch  was  imported  from 
England  when  the  building  was  erected  in  1769. 
It  is  a  simple  and  satisfactory  house  of  red  brick 
with  white  facings,  beautiful  in  its  proportions, 
with  a  cupola  balanced  by  two  chimneys,  and  a 
pointed,  overhanging  pediment  making  the  roof 
for  the  porch. 

In  enumerating  the  buildings  that  were  worthy 
of  mention  Jefferson  overlooked  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  whole  country,  Bruton  Church, 
built  in  1715,  succeeding  an  earlier  structure 
dating  between  1632  and  1665,  and  probably  the 
oldest  church  building  in  America.  It  is  of 
beautifully  toned  old  brick,  with  a  white, 
octagonal  and  pointed  wooden  tower  superim- 
posed on  the  square  brick  foundation.  The  body 
of  the  church  forms  a  cross.  A  brick  wall  sur- 
rounds it  and  the  graveyard  in  which  it  stands, 
a  lovely  place,  reminding  you  of  many  an  old  Eng- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

lish  graveyard,  even  to  the  blooming  hawthorn 
trees  and  ivy  that  shade  and  soften  the  tombs. 

Children  were  playing  here,  running  in  and  out 
among  the  square  headstones  or  the  carved  tombs, 
calling  to  each  other  in  the  soft  Southern  voices 
that  are  an  unmixed  delight  to  the  ear  protest- 
ingly  accustomed  to  the  raucous  shrieks  of  New 
York's  younger  element. 

The  dates  on  the  headstones  reach  back  far  into 
the  seventeenth  century,  and  several  bear  titles. 
One  recorded  that  it  was  "  Sacred  to  the  Memory 
of  Lady  Christina  Stuart,  Daughter  of  John 
Stuart,  6th.  Earl  of  Traquier,  and  Wife  of  Hon. 
Cyrus  Criffen,  born  in  Peebleshire,  Scot.  1751, 
Died  in  Virginia  1807."  The  sides  and  top  were 
carved,  and  the  sculptured  arms  still  witnessed  to 
the  pride  of  birth  that  made  Virginia  as  strongly 
aristocratic  as  the  old  land  from  which  she  drew. 
Another  tomb  summed  up  a  brief  life  briefly. 
"  Born  1787,  Mar.  1808,  Died  1816." 

Close  by  is  the  Whaley  tomb,  with  its  pathetic 
inscription: 

Matthew  Whaley  lyes 

Interred  here 

Within  this  Tomb  upon  his  Father  dear 

Who  departed  this  life  the 

26th.  of  September  1705 

Aged  Nine  Years 
Only  child  of  James  W.  and  Mary  his  wife. 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

This  is  the  child  for  whom  his  mother  left 
the  money  to  build  a  free  school  as  a  memorial. 
The  lady  herself,  so  desolately  bereft,  went  back 
to  England,  where  she  died.  Mary  Curtis' 
children  are  also  buried  here,  close  to  the 
church. 

The  church  has  passed  through  various  vicis- 
situdes, and  at  one  time  was  considerably  altered 
inside  by  tasteless  renovators,  but  in  1906  it  was 
restored  to  practically  its  ancient  condition.  It  is 
charming,  with  its  rows  of  mahogany  pews,  and  the 
stately  governor's  pew  opposite  the  pulpit,  on  a 
railed-in  dais,  a  great  carved  chair  overhung  with 
the  Spots  wood  canopy,  a  strong  note  in  the  tranquil 
beauty  of  the  place.  Here  through  the  generations 
the  same  service  has  been  held,  the  same  prayers 
spoken,  here  the  vested  choir  has  sung  hymns 
older  than  the  country  in  which  it  stands.  We 
listened,  next  morning,  to  the  prayer  in  time  of 
war,  and  thought  upon  the  days  when  that  same 
prayer  had  stirred  anxious  hearts  in  the  pews 
where  now  we  sat.  During  the  ante-war  days  of 
the  Revolution  the  governor,  Lord  Dunmore,  and 
the  members  of  the  House  of  Burgesses  moved 
up  into  the  gallery,  ousting  the  college  students, 
for  their  lack  of  popularity  persisted  even  within 
the  church. 

We  were  shown  the  three  Communion  Services, 
one  given  by  Jamestown,  another  by  George  III., 

-H-52-i- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

bearing  the  legend  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  Honi 
Soit  qui  mal  y  pense,  the  third  the  gift  of  Lady 
Gooch,  wife  of  Governor  Gooch.  This  is  dated 
1686.  All  are  exquisitely  fashioned. 

The  coloured  sacristan  pointed  out  to  us,  on 
Palace  Green,  the  Whaley  School,  and  told  us  that 
we  should  find  several  old  houses  worth  our 
while : 

'  You  go  on  roun'  this  heah  way,"  he  said, 
"  and  you'll  find  the  house  where  Geo'ge  Wash- 
ington lived;  the  Geo'ge  Wythe  House.  And 
over  yander's  where  the  first  theatre  in  this  yer 
country  used  to  stand." 

That  was  the  theatre  where  Miss  Johnston's 
"  Audrey  "  was  supposed  to  have  played.  Wash- 
ington was  fond  of  attending  the  performances 
given  there  in  the  gay  old  days  when  Williams - 
burg  worthily  maintained  her  position  as  capital 
of  the  colony.  A  pleasant  stroll  across  the  Green 
from  the  Wythe  House  it  was.  We  sat  down 
among  the  buttercups  and  tried  to  reconstruct 
the  picture.  What  a  different  scene  from  those 
that  stir  the  imagination  in  the  old  Puritan  towns 
of  New  England! 

But  Williamsburg  had  its  grim  reminder  that 
the  life  of  man  is  sad. 

Leaving  the  church  we  crossed  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester Street  and  took  one  of  the  cross  streets, 
wishing  to  see  the  hospital  (the  first  for  the  insane 

-+•53-*- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic)  that  had  been  spoken 
of  as  very  fine  and  well  run.  A  guard  stood  at 
the  gate,  and  seeing  the  numerous  patients  walk- 
ing and  idling  about  the  pretty  grounds,  we  made 
no  attempt  to  enter.  The  wild  and  sullen  looks 
of  the  women  who  stared  out  at  us  took  away 
the  faintest  desire  to  get  a  closer  view,  and  we 
turned  into  a  street  that  seemed  to  lead  past  the 
end  of  the  long  building.  But  we  wished  we 
had  not  taken  it,  for  it  ran  close  under  the 
wall  of  the  men's  quarters,  and  as  the  day 
was  warm  they  were  all  out  on  the  long, 
iron-barred  verandas,  or  sitting  at  the  open 
windows,  and  our  presence  drew  shouts  of 
inquiry,  which  added  point  to  the  strange 
medley  of  sound  that  rose  and  fell  in  endless 
waves. 

"  Let's  turn  back — my  knees  are  shaking," 
whispered  Sister.  The  road  stretched  on  ahead, 
revealing  no  turning  that  would  take  us  away 
from  the  sorrowful  place.  It  was  better  to  turn 
back. 

An  old  man,  at  a  window  on  the  second 
story,  appealed  to  us  in  a  clear,  insistent 
voice: 

"  If  they  ask  after  me,  be  sure  to  tell  them 
I'm  not  here,"  he  begged.  We  hurried  on,  but 
he  called  again,  with  greater  anxiety,  "  Girls,  if 
they  ask  for  me,  tell  them  I'm  not  here." 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

"  Surely,"  I  called  back.  "  We'll  tell  them." 
He  seemed  satisfied,  and  reaching  the  corner,  we 
left  the  dim  confusion  of  those  stricken  beings 
behind  us. 

"Well,  we've  seen  the  frame  to  the  college," 
said  Sister,  "  and  it  is  various.  Let  us  get  to  the 
college  itself." 

William  and  Mary  is  the  second  college  in 
seniority  in  the  United  States,  Harvard  alone 
being  older.  King  William  III.  and  Queen  Mary 
gave  it  its  charter  in  1691 — its  colours,  the  orange 
of  Nassau  and  the  white  of  York,  witnessing  to 
its  royal  lineage.  It  is  the  only  college  in 
America,  if  not  in  the  world,  to  have  arms  given 
by  the  English  College  of  Heraldry.  The  arms 
of  most  colleges  draw  from  some  donator,  some 
patron  of  wealth  and  power.  William  and  Mary's 
are  her  own  alone.  On  a  golden  shield  a  silver 
college  building,  with  a  sun  above,  shedding 
its  rays  below,  and  at  the  bottom  the  date 
of  the  actual  beginning  of  the  institution, 
1693. 

But  though  this  Virginian  college  was  not  the 
first  in  existence,  it  was  first  in  many  ways.  The 
desire  for  a  college  had  been  stirring  in  the  colony 
since  1619,  and  though  the  Indian  massacre  of 
1622  checked  all  chance  of  its  building  for  many 
years,  the  idea  persisted,  waiting  only  a  favourable 
opportunity. 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

First  it  was,  to  get  a  charter  from  the  Crown, 
first  to  have  a  full  Faculty,  and  first  to  award 
medals  for  collegiate  prizes  through  the  generosity 
of  Lord  Botetourt.  It  was  also  first  in  having 
a  Greek  letter  fraternity,  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  now 
one  of  the  great  societies  in  all  the  larger  colleges 
and  universities.  It  also  first  inaugurated  a 
system  of  elective  studies,  the  honour  system,  and 
the  first  schools  for  foreign  languages  and  muni- 
cipal law,  these  latter  under  the  urging  of  Thomas 
Jefferson,  who  was  one  of  the  many  distinguished 
graduates  of  the  college,  and  who  got  several  of 
his  ideas  for  his  own  University  from  his  Alma 
Mater.  Two  other  firsts  may  be  recorded:  here 
political  economy  was  first  taught,  and  here  the 
first  school  of  history  was  founded. 

Something  of  achievement,  certainly. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  Street 
a  tall  iron  gateway  marks  the  entrance  to  the 
campus,  though  there  is  no  fence  or  wall  about 
the  grounds.  These  are  triangular  in  shape,  well 
grassed,  with  fine  trees.  A  flagged  walk  leads 
straight  to  the  main  and  oldest  building,  which, 
five  times  burned,  has  always  been  rebuilt  upon 
the  original  stout  brick  walls.  It  is  a  beautiful, 
harmonious  structure,  solidly  set  upon  the  turf, 
overgrown  with  vines,  through  which  the  mellow 
brick  shows  warmly.  Double  storied,  with  a 
slender  cupola  on  top,  and  a  fine  projecting 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

entrance,  the  lower  portion  magnificently  arched, 
it  has  an  effect  of  serene  dignity  and  welcome. 
Within  this  building  are  the  Chapel,  two  Literary 
Society  halls,  the  treasurer's  office  and  a  dozen  or 
more  lecture  rooms.  It  is  the  heart  of  the 
college. 

Almost  as  old  are  the  two  brick  buildings  that 
flank  the  walk  just  within  the  entrance,  Brafferton 
Hall,  where  the  first  Indian  School  in  the  country 
once  had  its  being,  and  the  President's  house. 
Brafferton  is  now  a  dormitory.  Across  the  road 
are  three  other  dormitories  and  the  mess  hall. 
Most  of  the  students  live  in  dormitories,  though 
some  board  in  town.  The  place  is  a  real  college. 
Its  three  hundred  students  know  each  other  in- 
timately, and  their  daily  life  is  lived  together. 
We  watched  them  as  they  drifted  here  and  there 
in  laughing  groups.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  no  work  was  to  do.  Girls  walked  with  them, 
girls  reminding  you  of  Judge  Coalter's  remark, 
in  1791,  to  the  effect  that  he  "  scarcely  knew  a 
place  more  pleasing  than  Williamsburg,  which 
may  justly  receive  the  title,  the  land  of  lovely 
dames."  The  men  looked  unusually  youthful  for 
college  men,  boys  hardly  attained  to  their  twenties, 
one  would  say.  But  a  tremendous  spirit  of  friend- 
liness and  comradeship  made  itself  felt.  These 
boys  were  going  to  look  back  on  their  years  at 
William  and  Mary  with  a  home  feeling  that  it  is 

-HffT-4- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

difficult    to    imagine    associated    with    the    great 
universities  of  our  Eastern  States. 

During  the  Revolution  the  French  camped  on 
the  college  campus  and  inadvertently  burned  the 
President's  house.  Louis  XVI.  rebuilt  it  out  of 
his  privy  purse,  donating  a  collection  of  books  as 
further  proof  of  his  contrition  and  graciousness. 
The  work  was  perfectly  done,  and  the  house  is 
a  charming  addition  to  the  group  on  the  campus. 
An  interesting  detail  is  that  the  flagged  walks 
form  the  letters  W  M. 

A  series  of  contretemps  prevented  us  from 
seeing  President  Tyler  at  the  college  or  in  his 
house.  This  was  the  more  disappointing,  as  he 
had  promised  to  show  us  the  treasures  of  the 
library,  gathered  in  the  new  building  close  to  the 
Athletic  Field.  We  stepped  into  the  room,  for 
most  of  the  building  consists  of  one  large  room, 
and  glaced  at  some  of  the  portraits  and  drawings, 
the  old  prints,  and  the  interesting  looking  backs 
of  rows  of  old  books  and  manuscripts.  But  that 
is  as  far  as  we  got.  Several  students  were  reading 
comfortably  in  big  chairs — it  was  the  homiest 
looking  college  library  either  of  us  had  ever 
visited. 

Oddly  enough  the  space  beneath  the  main  col- 
lege building  was  used  as  a  burial  ground  for 
several  of  the  great  men  of  Williamsburg.  Here 
lie  the  Randolphs,  Sir  John  and  his  two  sons, 

-»-58-*- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

Peyton  and  John,  with  Lord  Botetourt,  Bishop 
Madison  and  Chancellor  Nelson.  Washington 
was  Chancellor  of  the  college  at  one  time.  Before 
the  main  hall  stands  the  statue  of  this  Botetourt, 
the  most  popular  of  all  the  royal  governors,  show- 
ing a  suave,  agreeable  man  delicately  clad  in  the 
height  of  the  then  fashion.  It  was  made  in  1773, 
and  stands  on  a  beautiful  base  cut  with  word  on 
word  of  fervent  praise.  A  fascinating,  competent 
and  delightful  gentleman  this  Lord  Botetourt, 
evidently. 

William  and  Mary  is  now  a  state  college,  and 
much  of  its  energy  is  devoted  to  training  men  as 
teachers  for  the  public  and  private  schools  of  the 
country. 

So  far  as  we  could  see,  none  of  its  students 
were  in  khaki.  But  as  we  passed  the  Gymnasium 
on  our  way  to  the  Athletic  Field,  dotted  over  with 
the  tents  of  the  Marines,  in  regular  rows  stretch- 
ing away  from  the  Colonel's  walled  tent,  before 
which  stood  the  Colours,  we  found  that  they  were 
decidedly  interested  in  military  manifestations. 
The  whole  college  and  most  of  the  town  had 
gradually  collected  there. 

Baseball  was  in  practice  at  a  dozen  different 
spots,  the  soldiers  of  the  sea  and  the  college  lads 
playing  together  with  shouts  of  glee  and  roars  of 
laughter  and  excitement.  Everywhere  over  the 
orderly  grounds  strolled  the  boys,  looking  and 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

asking  questions.  The  tennis  courts  were  deserted, 
and  the  many  diversions  of  Saturday  afternoon 
sacrificed  to  hobnobbing  with  the  men  from  the 
ships. 

'  This  is  their  second  day  here,"  one  of  the 
college  boys  told  us.  "  To-morrow  morning  they 
go  back  to  Yorktown.  But  to-night  the  officers 
are  giving  a  dance  at  the  Inn,  and  the  Marine 
Band's  going  to  play.  It  will  be  fine.  You'll 
be  there,  of  course?"  JEEe  smiled  at  us.  "The 
diningroom  at  the  Inn  makes  a  fine  place  for 
dancing." 

The  students  at  William  and  Mary  find  their 
fun,  not  in  the  way  that  the  men  at  Yale  or 
Harvard  find  theirs,  a  way  usually  including  the 
spending  of  much  money  and  the  acquiring  of  a 
good  deal  of  sophistication,  but  in  the  way  that 
boys  growing  up  in  an  old  and  small  town,  where 
the  social  element  is  strong  and  well  founded,  find 
theirs.  The  life  of  the  college  student  mingles 
with  the  life  of  the  old  families  of  the  town.  He 
has  his  particular  interests,  of  course,  his  debating 
societies — and  William  and  Mary  has  more  than 
once  carried  away  the  prize  for  oratory  from  all 
the  other  colleges  or  universities  in  Virginia — his 
Literary  Societies,  his  college  papers,  his  athletics. 
But  he  knows  the  daughters  of  the  time-honoured 
houses  of  Williamsburg  as  he  might  the  girls  in 
his  home  town,  he  is  asked  to  dinner  or  to  tea, 

-+60-J- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

and  in  the  hospitable  walls  of  the  Inn  he  goes  to 
many  a  dance,  to  many  a  party.  A  flavour  of  the 
older  days  still  gives  to  the  college  a  quality  of 
intimacy  and  cohesion  rare  to-day,  but  desirable 
as  rare. 

And  now,  with  a  rattle  of  drums  and  the  clear 
call  of  the  fife,  the  Marines  were  marching. 

And  we  all  marched  with  them,  or  at  least 
behind  them.  Down  the  broad  street  to  the 
stretches  of  Court  Green,  where,  for  over  a 
hundred  years,  soldiers  have  paraded  and  village 
sports  taken  place.  We,  the  spectators,  some 
sitting  on  the  grass,  others  on  the  steps  of  the 
houses,  or  in  motors  or  carriages,  ranged  round 
the  square.  The  Marines  deployed  upon  it,  and 
prepared  for  dress  parade. 

'  We  are  in  amazing  luck,"  exclaimed  Sister. 
"Isn't  it  a  stunning  sight;  but  I  do  hope  it  is 
not  going  to  rain!  " 

Here  and  back  again  swung  the  martial  lines, 
responding  to  the  sharply  enunciated  orders  of  the 
officers.  The  band  played,  the  band  stopped. 
The  manual  of  arms  was  gone  through  with 
snappily.  Again  the  band  blared  out  and  again 
the  men  swung  along  in  measured  cadence.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  a  sight  to  stir  the  blood. 

And  the  rain  did  hold  off  till  it  was  all  over. 
Then  there  came  a  spattering,  and  we  all  raced 
for  cover,  we  lookers  on.  The  Inn  proved  a 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

convenient  spot  for  shelter — and  presently  the 
veranda  was  crowded  with  officers,  college  boys, 
pretty  girls  and  older  people.  The  balcony  above 
took  the  overflow.  Then  the  rain  stopped. 

Upon  which  the  band  marched  out  in  front  to 
give  us  a  concert. 

"  It's  like  old  days — in  a  way,"  I  heard  a  lady, 
white  haired  and  gentle  of  voice,  murmur  to  her 
companion. 

One  of  the  officers  stepped  up  on  a  waiting 
motor  car  when  the  music  ceased  and  began  to 
make  a  brief  but  extremely  thrilling  speech,  urging 
the  young  men  of  Williamsburg  to  volunteer. 

Here,  on  the  very  ground  where  the  Union 
soldiers  had  burned  and  torn  down  the  homes  and 
public  buildings  of  the  forefathers  of  those  youths 
listening  in  the  last  flickerings  of  rain,  we  heard 
the  appeal  to  fight  for  our  common  democracy, 
spoken  in  the  short,  swift  sentences  of  a 
soldier: 

"We  have  just  heard  that  Conscription  is 
coming,"  he  said.  "War  is  already  here.  Many 
of  you  young  men  will  be  drafted  into  it — many, 
I  hope,  will  volunteer  for  it.  And  it  looks  as 
though  you  who  are  still  too  young  to  be  drafted 
or  to  volunteer  will  grow  up  into  this  war  and 
have  to  fight  in  your  turn.  But  the  harder  we 
strike,  the  quicker  we  strike — the  better  our  chance 
for  ending  this  war  soon — for  ending  war  itself. 

-f-62-*- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

Strike  we  must,  against  the  greatest  peril  this 
country  has  yet  had  to  face.  War  is  a  horrible 
thing.  We,  whose  business  it  is,  know  that  better 
than  any,  and  perhaps  hate  it  worse.  We 
Americans  will  never  be  a  militaristic  nation. 
Our  whole  national  ideal  is  opposed  to  war,  to 
aggression,  to  the  military  ideal.  But  we  have 
never  hung  back  when  the  hour  to  fight  has  come, 
and  we  shall  not  hang  back  now.  There  is  fight- 
ing ahead  of  us,  suffering  ahead  of  us,  sacrifice 
ahead  of  us — at  the  end  there  is  triumph,  peace, 
security  for  all  we  hold  precious  ahead  of  us. 
And  it  is  you,  you,  the  young  men  of  America, 
who  must  help  to  win  this  peace  and  this  security. 
There  is  no  way  to  win  it  except  by  fighting." 

Sister  and  I  sat  on  the  balcony,  looking  down 
at  the  young  faces  turned  toward  the  speaker. 
It  took  little  imagination  to  conjure  behind  them 
the  figures  of  the  mighty  past,  when  Williamsburg 
had  blazed  in  the  very  forefront  of  the  first  great 
struggle  for  liberty;  or  to  hear,  within  the  words 
of  the  officer  who  spoke,  the  ringing  cry  of  Patrick 
Henry,  spoken  but  a  few  yards  from  the  very 
spot  where  we  were  gathered: 

"  Tarquin  and  Caesar  had  each  his  Brutus, 
Charles  the  First  his  Cromwell,  and  George  the 
Third — George  the  Third  may  profit  by  their 
example.  If  this  be  treason,  make  the  most 
of  it!" 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

But  the  band  struck  up  Dixie  and  the  ghosts 
disappeared.  The  next  moment  we  were  being 
presented  to  most  of  Williamsburg  as  well  as 
meeting  the  officers  of  the  visiting  regiment. 
College  boys  and  young  girls  began  drifting  away 
to  waiting  suppers,  talking  of  many  things,  doubt- 
less, besides  the  war,  and  the  older  people,  after 
bidding  us  welcome  with  that  gracious  charm  that 
is  so  characteristic  of  Virginia,  and  hoping  to  see 
us  later  at  the  dance,  followed  their  sons  and 
daughters  down  the  broad,  quiet  streets  and  into 
the  beautiful  old  houses  in  and  out  of  whose  doors 
have  passed  so  many  patriots,  so  many  men  with- 
out whom  America  would  have  been  poor  indeed. 

We  felt  that  we  had  seen  Williamsburg  at  a 
peculiarly  fortunate  moment  of  her  life ;  something 
of  the  stir  of  the  older  days  was  here  again;  and 
that  evening,  in  the  long  room  of  the  Inn,  some- 
thing of  the  colour  and  charm  and  gaiety  of  the 
days  of  the  Raleigh  Tavern,  when  the  town  was 
a  city,  the  capital  of  the  colony,  when  the  House  of 
Burgesses  was  sitting  and  the  Supreme  Court  in 
Session,  when,  in  fact,  the  season  was  on,  the 
theatre  drawing  its  nightly  gatherings  of  stately 
cavalier  and  powdered  dame,  and  the  big  coaches 
swinging  to  open  doors  with  guests  for  dinner 
and  guests  for  the  dance,  something  of  all  this 
was  reconstructed  that  evening. 

To  be  sure,  we  danced  the  fox  trot  and  the 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

one  step,  and  the  men  were  in  evening  clothes  or 
khaki,  while  the  Marine  Band  played  music 
written  later  than  the  days  of  the  Revolution. 
But  what  of  that? 

When  Thomas  Jefferson  was  a  law  student  in 
the  town  he  had  written  home,  heading  his  letter 
"  Devilsburg  "  in  a  jocose  spirit,  and  had  stated 
that  the  night  before  he  had  been  supremely 
happy,  dancing  with  Belinda.  The  present-day 
Belindas  have  lost  nothing  of  fascination.  We 
thought  we  had  not  often  seen  so  many  pretty 
girls,  and  what  a  royal  time  they  were  having, 
splitting  dances  three  and  four  times,  surrounded 
by  little  courts,  and  managing  their  swains 
inimitably. 

*  There  isn't  a  doubt  but  that  these  Southern 
girls  know  how,"  whispered  Sister,  as  we  watched 
one  little  beauty  distributing  her  smiles  and  words 
with  an  exquisite  impartiality,  making  of  her 
evening  and  of  each  dance  a  work  of  art.  "  It's 
a  gift — nature's  dower." 

Next  morning  the  Marines  marched  away,  and 
Williamsburg  fell  back  into  her  present-day  state 
of  village  calm. 

If  ever  a  town  and  a  college  were  one,  that 
town  and  that  college  are  Williamsburg  and 
William  and  Mary.  From  all  we  were  told,  and 
all  we  could  see  they  are  one  big  family.  Now 
that  the  mint  grows  unplucked  in  Virginia  gardens 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

there  are  no  taverns  such  as  those  that  in  older 
days  drew  the  college  youth  to  roistering  or  taught 
them  the  delight  of  gambling.  But  William  and 
Mary  was  always  dignified.  Her  classes  were  and 
are  small.  Yet  many  great  men  have  come  from 
these  classes.  Four  Presidents  of  the  United 
States  were  students  here,  congressmen,  senators, 
jurists,  at  least  one  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court; 
she  gave  us  that  Clark  who  won  the  country  the 
Northwest  Territory,  she  gave  generals  both  to 
the  North  and  the  South  in  the  war  between  us. 
Her  heritage  is  great,  and  the  men  who  go  from 
her  to-day,  to  teach  all  over  the  country  or  to 
enter  the  various  learned  professions  as  the  case 
may  be,  are  full  of  the  spirit  that  has  made  her 
so  important  a  part  of  our  history.  The  town 
where  they  spend  four  years  is  scarcely  changed 
by  the  passing  of  time.  During  the  Jamestown 
Exposition  the  citizens  were  considerably  upset  by 
a  proposition  to  build  a  trolley  up  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester  Street.  They  escaped  the  threatened 
peril,  and  continue  to  be  allowed  the  privilege 
of  walking  and  the  peace  of  no  other  sounds  than 
those  of  the  horses  going  softly  through  the  dust 
or  mud,  or  the  chugging  of  the  automobiles  that 
even  Williamsburg  conservatism  has  not  kept 
away.  They  have  kept  the  old  names,  and  the 
old  houses.  Six  miles  away  lies  Jamestown,  now 
no  more  than  a  lovely  group  of  old  buildings 

-+66-?- 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY 

within  a  charming  park;  twelve  miles  on  the  other 
side  is  old  Yorktown,  as  picturesque,  almost  as 
ancient,  almost  as  small.  Williamsburg  is  a 
stronghold  of  the  past,  a  sort  of  enchanted  ground, 
lovely  and  quiet  as  a  dream. 


67 


CHAPTER  III 

Annapolis 

WE  went  to  Annapolis  on  the  electric  line  from 
Baltimore,  and  can  recommend  the  trip  to  any  one. 
It  runs  through  charming  country,  all  planted  out 
in  strawberry  fields  and  wheat  fields,  in  kitchen 
gardens,  or  else  running  wild  to  flourishing  woods. 
Coming  up  from  Richmond,  we  found  the  spring 
a  trifle  younger.  Apple  blossoms  back  on  the 
trees,  dogwood  just  whitening  on  the  bough,  and 
round  the  pretty  houses  the  clear  gold  of  forsythia. 
Annapolis  is  as  clean  and  bright  as  a  new 
whistle,  in  spite  of  its  dignified  age,  witnessed  by 
the  innumerable  stately  mansions  that  speak  a  day 
when  men  built  houses  that  matched  a  courtlier 
time  and  more  gracious  manners  than  we  know 
to-day.  When  they  built  for  a  family,  for  sons  to 
succeed  them,  and  set  their  homes  within  gardens 
whose  large  leisure  reflected  their  own  spirit, 
unhurried,  never  idle,  serene.  Within  its  small 
extent  Annapolis  has  more  of  these  fine  old  homes 
than  any  other  place  in  America.  It  has  also 
been  a  sailor  town  so  long  it  must  be  as  spic  and 
span  as  it  is  old  and  noble — there  is  the  air  of  a 
quarterdeck  to  Annapolis. 

-+68-*- 


ANNAPOLIS 

The  little  city  is  almost  surrounded  by  water 
and  the  breath  of  the  sea  is  sweet  across  it.  Its 
greatest  interest,  next  to  its  own  existence,  is 
the  fact  of  the  Naval  Academy,  of  whose  fine 
portals,  with  the  dome  of  its  Chapel,  you  con- 
stantly catch  glimpses,  now  down  some  tree- 
embowered  street,  now  across  a  little  square,  or 
beyond  blue  water  and  clustering  fishing  craft 
from  an  old  wharf — and  the  old  wharves  are  a 
mighty  pleasant  section  of  a  most  adorable  town. 

The  centre  of  all  is  the  State  House,  a  square 
Colonial  building  with  a  white  cupola  and  noble 
portico,  that  stands  on  a  slight  rise,  the  avenues 
and  streets  leading  to  it  from  the  radius  of  a 
circle,  and  a  flourishing  little  park  surrounding  it. 
Close  by  are  the  Governor's  House,  old  churches, 
the  court  house,  in  fact,  the  whole  group  of  public 
buildings,  and  many  of  the  finest  mansions.  But 
truly  everything  is  close  to  it,  for  the  town  is  as 
compact  as  it  is  small ;  a  morning's  stroll  will  take 
you  all  over  it,  from  the  line  of  the  old  Civil  War 
fortifications  and  the  site  of  the  one-time  gate  to 
the  Severn  River  and  Annapolis  Harbour,  from 
College  Creek  to  Spa  Creek. 

'We   will   begin  with   the   Academy,"   I    ex-' 
pounded  to  Sister.  "  because  we  may  perhaps  not 
be  able  to  begin  there,  or  even  get  there.     The 
hand  of  the  Kaiser  has  swung-to  the  gates  of  the 
Naval   Academy   and  kept   the   townsfolk   from 


ANNAPOLIS 

their  agreeable  task  of  overlooking  parade  and 
listening  to  the  band  at  sunset.  It  also  bars 
visitors  from  out  of  town.  Will  the  publisher's 
letter  that  I  proudly  carry  prove  stronger  than 
the  German  threat?  We'll  see." 

So  we  climbed  out  of  the  car  at  the  very 
entrance  to  the  beautiful  grounds.  Above  the 
sky  was  a  brilliant  blue,  with  galleon  clouds, 
snowy- white,  sailing  on  the  west  wind.  Beyond 
the  bluest  water  flung  white  foam  from  wave  to 
wave,  and  everywhere  else  was  green,  green, 
green.  Each  little  new  leaf  looked  to  be  swinging 
its  hat  for  very  joy  of  life  .  .  .  yo-ho,  heave-ho! 
.  .  .  while  every  grass-blade  danced  a  tiny  horn- 
pipe. 

But  the  Marine  who  stood  on  guard  inside  those 
gates  danced  nothing.  His  demeanour  was  grave, 
even  formidable,  as  we  approached  the  forbidden 
entrance. 

We  produced  our  letter  and  were  led  to  the 
sentry  house  just  inside,  where  we  handed  our 
credentials  to  a  second  guard;  and  presently 
thereafter  we  were  being  escorted  to  the  Superin- 
tendent's house. 

Captain  Eberley  is  the  present  head  of  the 
Academy,  a  man  of  evident  force  and  distinction, 
a  fit  inheritor  of  the  notable  line  of  officers  who 
have  preceded  him  at  the  post  he  holds.  He 
granted  our  request  to  be  allowed  to  see  the 


ANNAPOLIS 

college  without  hesitation,  speaking  of  the  neces- 
sity of  taking  precautions  and  regretting  that  we 
could  not  see  the  Academy  in  its  normal  and 
more  welcoming  state,  when  there  was  some  play 
mixed  with  the  large  amount  of  work  that  made 
the  daily  routine  of  the  cadets'  life. 

"  At  ordinary  times  it  would  be  better  to  come 
late  in  the  afternoon  for  parade  and  the  chance 
it  gives  to  see  the  students  lined  up — but  the 
social  side  of  Annapolis  isn't  very  much  in  evi- 
dence at  present.  But  you  can  see  the  grounds 
and  the  buildings  at  least." 

He  assigned  us  a  Marine  as  guide,  and  off 
we  marched  to  look  over  Uncle  Sam's  plant  for 
producing  sailor  officers — a  plant  said  to  be  the 
finest  for  the  purpose  in  the  world. 

Since  the  Spanish  War  the  country  has  spent 
some  fifteen  million  dollars  in  replacing  the  old, 
unsatisfactory  and  inadequate  buildings  with 
which  the  Navy  had  struggled  for  long  years  by 
the  splendid  new  ones  that  now  stand  in  their 
white  beauty,  magnificently  grouped  about  as  fine 
a  parade  ground  and  park  as  could  be  wished  on 
any  college.  To  be  sure,  there  has  been  a  wail 
or  so  from  the  cadets  in  regard  to  the  breezy  open 
spaces  of  the  new  arrangement.  Even  Lovers' 
Lane,  a  broad  walk  curving  near  the  bandstand, 
knows  nothing  of  nooks  and  corners.  In  the 
annual  published  by  the  graduating  class  the  stu- 


ANNAPOLIS 

dents  give  way  to  feelings  and  opinions,  sometimes 
in  prose,  occasionally  in  verse.  One  inspired  mid- 
shipman of  the  class  of  1910  poured  out  his  soul 
in  several  stanzas  bewailing  the  bright  changes. 
We  memorised  the  last  of  the  stanzas,  and  here 
it  is: 

ee  For  in  this  place  new  "buildings  stand, 

All  stiff  and  new  and  white, 
With  not  a  single  quiet  nook 
That's  not  out  in  plain  sight! " 

The  Academy  is  a  clean  swept  place  of  noble 
spaces  and  proportions,  shaded  by  fine  trees  and 
traversed  by  white  paths.  Every  inch  of  it  is 
"  out  in  plain  sight."  Perhaps  the  ingenuity  of 
youth  discovers  opportunities  for  flirtation,  but 
certainly  the  architects  and  landscape  artists,  who 
laid  out  the  new  Annapolis,  made  no  provision 
whatever  for  the  romantically  inclined. 

"  Remember  the  magnolia  shaded  terraces  and 
walled  gardens  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  the 
wistaria  hung  porches  and  lilac  fenced  corners  of 
Williamsburg,"  murmured  Sister,  as  we  walked 
the  trim  reaches  of  Lovers'  Lane.  "  It's  all  very 
well  to  hold  strictly  to  business,  as  they  do  here; 
but  why  the  sardonic  humour  implied  in  calling 
this  Lovers'  Lane? "  "Affecting  a  virtue  if  they 
have  it  not,"  I  responded.  "  But,  instead  of  pity- 


ANNAPOLIS 

ing  the  cadets  because  they  seem  here  to  be 
denied  the  sailor's  immemorial  right  to  flirt,  let 
us  look  at  the  thorough  preparation  that  has  been 
made  for  them  to  work." 

The  Superintendent's  house  flanks  the  Chapel 
to  the  right,  as  you  stand  facing  it,  with  the 
Administration  building  to  the  left.  These  are 
on  the  town  side  of  the  reservation  and  opposite 
from  them,  across  a  broad  stretch  of  lawn,  is  the 
Basin,  where  are  anchored  the  ships  used  in 
training  the  cadets.  Among  these  is  the  Reina 
Mercedes,  a  Spanish  battleship  captured  in  the 
Spanish  War,  and  now  a  receiving  ship. 

"She  was  sunk,  but  they  got  her  up  again 
and  cleaned  her  out  and  keep  her  here,"  said  our 
Marine.  "  She  makes  a  good  ship  for  what  they 
want." 

"  Maybe  we'll  have  some  German  ships  to 
range  alongside  of  her,"  hazarded  Sister. 

"  Some  of  them  submarines  might  come  handy," 
agreed  the  Marine.  But  his  mission  was  to  show 
us  the  Academy,  not  to  prophesy,  and  he  now 
led  us  to  the  door  of  the  Chapel. 

Or  rather,  before  its  gates,  magnificent  sheets 
of  sculptured  bronze  that  were  presented  by 
Colonel  Robert  M.  Thompson  as  a  memorial  to 
the  class  of  '68,  with  which  he  graduated.  The 
massive  beauty  of  these  doors  make  a  fit  entrance 
to  a  church,  new  as  it  is,  that  has  a  dignity,  an 


ANNAPOLIS 

up-springing  grace  and  virile  strength  which  make 
it  rememberable  among  all  the  collegiate  Chapels 
in  the  country.  Its  fine  dome  rises  superbly  from 
the  main  portion  of  the  building,  built  in  the  form 
of  a  Greek  cross  whose  short  arms  are  bound 
together  by  the  circular  arch  of  the  walls.  This 
Chapel  dominates  the  entire  splendid  group  of 
grey-white  buildings  whose  key-note  is  strength 
and  simplicity,  giving  the  final  touch  of  inspira- 
tion and  aspiration  needed  to  express  the  spirit 
of  the  place. 

As  we  entered  the  Marine  surrendered  us  to 
the  care  of  a  coloured  gentleman  who  rapidly 
imparted  a  number  of  statistics  and  pointed  out 
various  memorial  gifts.  We  heeded  him  little. 
The  interior  was  both  rich  and  grave,  and  must 
make  a  wonderful  frame  for  the  students  in  their 
dark-blue  uniforms,  as  they  sit  rank  by  rank  in 
a  solid  group  in  their  own  particular  portion  of 
the  auditorium.  If  they  are  like  other  college 
boys,  let  us  hope  that  the  sermons  are  short.  We 
wished  that  we  might  see  them  march  in  and  out, 
and  hear  them  sing.  And  then  we  asked  if  we 
might  go  to  the  crypt  and  look  upon  the  tomb 
of  Paul  Jones. 

Yes,  the  Marine  was  ready  for  that. 

John  Paul  Jones  is  to  America  what  Nelson  is 
to  the  English,  the  consummate  hero  of  the  seas. 
Not  only  is  he  a  hero,  but  the  years  that  have 


ANNAPOLIS 

gone  have  not  been  able  to  dim  the  rich  human 
quality  of  the  man.  His  charm  reaches  us  yet 
and  warms  our  hearts  to  him. 

Now  he  lies,  sepulchered  in  pomp,  within  a 
great  sarcophagus  of  black  and  white  porphyry, 
richly  veined.  Stands  of  flags  decorate  the  cir- 
cular chamber,  with  streamers  bearing  the  name 
of  the  Bonhomme  Richard,  and  golden  cables 
guard  the  entrance  to  the  tomb  itself.  A  solemn 
state  shrouds  the  dust  that  held  so  much  fire. 
A  gallant  and  daring  spirit  it  was,  lit  by  the 
flame  of  genius,  and  all  this  marble  and  all  this 
dim  splendour  of  flag  and  column  and  arch  are 
not  too  much  to  do  it  honour. 

We  turned  silently  to  leave,  but  were  checked 
at  the  exit  by  the  guardian  of  the  place,  who 
beckoned  us  to  the  register,  and  asked  us  to  set 
down  our  names.  We  did  so,  and  mounted  the 
steps  that  led  out  again  to  the  green  spring. 

"  What  do  you  suppose,"  said  Sister,  "  becomes 
of  all  the  registers  once  they  are  filled  with  names? 
Who  ever  reads  them?  What  are  they  good  for? 
Where  are  they  kept? " 

"  That's  like  those  terrible  questions  about  what 
becomes  of  the  lost  pins.  But  it  is  remarkable, 
that  passion  for  getting  names  into  a  book  wher- 
ever tourists  might  be  expected  to  congregate. 
Whose  the  honour,  tourist  or  book?  Shall  we  ask 
the  Marine? " 


ANNAPOLIS 

But  the  Marine  now  pointed  out  the  general 
plan  of  the  buildings.  We  were  not  here  to 
ask  so  much  as  to  see  and  listen.  His  words 
were  brief  and  his  information  clear. 

To  the  right  of  the  Chapel  group  stood  Ban- 
croft Hall,  the  dormitory  of  the  students,  whose 
magnificent  fa£ade  extends  for  1,208  feet.  On 
one  side  it  faces  in  upon  the  campus  park,  on  the 
other  it  looks  out  upon  Annapolis  Harbour. 
Flanking  it  on  either  hand  are  the  Armory  and 
the  Seamanship  buildings.  Beautiful  pergolas 
join  the  whole  together  with  rows  of  graceful 
columns.  The  stone  used  in  all  the  work  is  not 
so  much  white  as  a  tender  grey,  that  harmonises 
admirably  with  the  tones  of  the  water  and  the 
brilliant  verdure  of  the  lawns  and  trees. 

Opposite  Bancroft  and  removed  by  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  green  that  lies  back  of  the  Basin 
are  the  Engineering  and  Mathematical  Depart- 
ments, the  Steam  Building,  and  to  the  right  of 
these  the  Power  House,  standing  on  a  small 
peninsula  forming  the  northern  boundary  of  the 
Basin.  Besides  these  buildings  there  are  the 
various  houses  for  the  officers  and  their  families, 
Sampson  Row,  Upshur  Row,  Rodgers  Row. 
These  rows  skirt  the  town  side  of  the  Reservation. 
Farther  to  the  north,  across  College  Creek,  is 
the  Naval  Cemetery. 

This  perfect  arrangement,  as  well  as  the  com- 


ANNAPOLIS 

prehensive  scheme  of  building,  is  due  mainly  to 
the  energy  and  enthusiasm  of  two  men,  Rear- 
Admiral  Philip  H.  Cooper  and  Colonel  Robert 
M.  Thompson,  the  same  officer  who  gave  to  the 
Chapel  its  bronze  doors.  They  were  big  men, 
and  they  did  a  big  thing,  against  all  sorts  of 
delay  and  opposition.  Ernest  Flagg,  the  New 
York  architect,  was  the  man  chosen  to  consult 
with  them  and  with  the  Board  of  Visitors  once 
the  necessary  permissions  and  appropriations  had 
been  secured.  This  was  in  1895.  But  before 
actual  work  commenced  the  Spanish  War  arrived 
to  call  another  halt,  and  it  was  not  until  '98  that 
the  corner  stone  was  laid  by  Rear- Admiral  F.  V. 
McNair,  who  had  succeeded  Admiral  Cooper  as 
Superintendent  of  the  Academy. 

Visitors  are  not  allowed  in  the  class  rooms  or  the 
quarters,  but  may  see  the  library  and  the  flag  room, 
as  well  as  the  machinery  room,  where  innumerable 
models  of  engines  old  and  modern  are  collected  and 
are  visible.  The  library  and  flag  room  occupy  the 
central  portion  of  the  Engineering  and  Mathe- 
matical Building,  these  departments  being  placed 
in  the  two  wings,  that  advance  at  right  angles,  the 
building  making  a  hollow  square  open  at  one 
end.  Over  the  main  entrance  is  a  balcony,  and 
here  we  stood  for  a  few  moments  to  watch  the 
classes  march  across  between  the  point  where  we 
waited  and  Bancroft  Hall.  It  was  a  splendid 

-+-T7-+- 


ANNAPOLIS 

sight.  Two  classes  came  from  Bancroft  toward 
us,  while  the  two  others  marched  back.  They 
came  and  they  went  with  a  swing  to  the  gay  note 
of  the  bugle,  the  dark-blue  uniforms  and  white 
caps  as  snappy  to  the  eye  as  the  alert  marching 
step  was  to  the  ear.  In  tip-top  athletic  form, 
slender,  straight,  each  boy  keeping  perfect  align- 
ment, rank  by  rank  they  moved,  now  in  the  sun, 
now  under  the  shading  elms,  a  gallant  thing  to 
see. 

And  that  was  our  only  view  of  the  students. 

The  library  consists  of  a  long,  handsome  room, 
beautifully  fitted,  and  hung  with  portraits  of 
distinguished  officers.  In  serried  ranks  the  books 
crowded  the  long  shelves,  all  of  them,  it  seemed  to 
our  hurried  glances,  devoted  to  technical  subjects. 
There  were  plenty  of  magazines  on  the  tables, 
however,  and  doubtless  the  lighter  moods  of  liter- 
ature find  room  somewhere  among  those  many 
volumes.  We  got  brief  time  to  make  discoveries, 
however,  for  time  was  on  the  march,  and  the 
Marine  with  it.  The  flag  room  was  our  next 
goal. 

It  has  often  been  observed  that  human  emotion 
is  a  strange  and  unaccountable  thing.  Most  of 
the  rules  the  nations  have  made  are  attempts  to 
control  and  direct  it,  and  most  of  our  individual 
life  is  spent  in  doing  something  of  the  same 
sort.  What  raises  one  man  to  heaven  throws 


ANNAPOLIS 

another  into  hell,  and  your  heart  will  beat  wildly 
enough  at  what  leaves  your  neighbour  cold. 

But  go  into  that  flag  room  at  Annapolis,  fellow 
American,  and  remain  unmoved  if  you  can. 
What,  after  all,  is  a  flag?  A  piece  of  coloured 
cloth,  no  more?  Yet,  looking  round  that  circular 
chamber,  about  whose  walls,  carefully  sheltered 
behind  glass  and  exquisitely  preserved  against  the 
tearing  fingers  of  time,  hang  the  rich  folds  of  the 
standards,  each  with  its  own  story;  looking  up  at 
the  ceiling  where  are  spread  the  captured  banners 
of  many  a  bitter  battle,  surrounding  that  famous 
flag,  which,  flying  over  Fort  McHenry,  inspired 
Francis  Scott  Key  to  the  writing  of  the  National 
anthem;  thus  looking,  standing  in  that  silent 
chamber,  you  will  find  your  heart  thumping  and 
your  breath  come  short. 

The  place  holds  the  quality  of  grandeur. 
These  banners,  that  flew  in  the  wild  breezes  above 
fighting  men,  that  waved  from  fort  and  ship  or 
fluttered  in  the  clutch  of  a  standard  bearer  at 
the  head  of  his  Marine  regiment,  hang  strangely 
still  and  silent.  Captured  flags  beside  those  that 
were  brought  home  in  triumph.  Flags  from  all 
the  world,  and  flags  that  tell  the  magnificent  story 
of  our  ships  wherever  those  ships  have  sailed  and 
fought. 

Here  hangs  the  flag  of  the  Maine,  found  ready 
to  hoist  at  the  foot  of  its  mast.  Here  is  the  flag 


ANNAPOLIS 

of  Perry  of  the  Lakes,  and,  stirring  the  heart 
above  the  rest,  Lawrence's  flag,  that  carried  the 
immortal  "  Don't  Give  Up  the  Ship."  And  how 
many  foreign  flags! 

"We  seem  to  have  been  fighting  all  the  time 
and  everywhere,"  Sister  whispered. 

China,  England,  Tripoli,  the  Philippines, 
Korea,  each  hangs  a  tribute  on  these  walls. 
Strange  designs,  fantastic  patterns,  flaming 
colours,  each  with  its  story. 

Softly  we  trod  the  magic  circle  of  that  room 
and  left  it  to  its  solemn  reveries.  A  place  of 
symbols,  where  glory  and  death  have  met,  and 
glory  conquered. 

Our  tour  of  the  grounds  was  over,  and  we  were 
back  at  the  gate,  with  thanks  to  our  competent 
guide,  the  most  silent  I  have  ever  met,  but  by 
no  means  the  least  satisfactory  on  that  score. 

The  Naval  Academy  dates  back  to  1845,  when 
a  few  old  buildings  on  the  Army  Reservation  at 
Point  Severn  were  handed  over  as  the  nucleus 
of  a  Naval  School.  Up  to  that  time  the  teaching 
of  a  midshipman  consisted  in  going  to  sea  and 
getting  licked  into  shape  somehow,  learning  to 
handle  a  ship  and  studying  the  intricacies  of 
navigation  much  as  Oliver  Twist  learned  to  spell 
window,  by  getting  to  work  washing  it.  But 
when  steam  came  in  something  more  of  prepara- 
tion was  recognised  as  necessary. 

-+•80-*- 


The  Center  of  All  is  the  State  House 


ANNAPOLIS 

The  inadequate  and  rather  haphazard  school 
turned  out  good  officers,  though  no  comprehen- 
sive plan  as  yet  underlay  its  teaching  or  training. 
In  the  Civil  War  the  school  moved  to  Newport. 
And  at  last,  when  it  returned  in  1865,  a  man  who 
saw  its  possibilities  and  dreamed  of  its  future, 
Admiral  David  H.  Porter,  took  hold  and  raised 
the  standards  of  instruction.  During  his  long 
administration  the  school  became  really  great. 
In  1881  Captain  Ramsay  was  made  Superin- 
tendent, and  in  him  again  Annapolis  was  for- 
tunate. From  then  on  her  progress  has  been 
swift  and  steady,  till  now  she  ranks  the  entire 
world. 

A  cadet's  life  is  held  wihin  far  narrower  bounds 
than  that  of  the  average  college  student.  Prac- 
tically all  of  a  naval  cadet's  time  is  spent  on  the 
Academy  grounds.  But  one  of  Annapolis'  most 
treasured  traditions  is  the  close  and  friendly  rela- 
tionship subsisting  between  the  families  of  the 
officers  and  the  young  students  under  training  at 
the  post.  A  constant  and  delightful  social  inter- 
course is  maintained,  and  the  value  of  this  on  the 
manners  and  the  character  of  the  boys  cannot  be 
overestimated.  A  naval  officer  must  possess  con- 
siderable social  poise  to  meet  properly  the  various 
duties  that  fall  upon  him,  both  at  home  and  in 
foreign  countries.  The  ease  that  comes  from 
mixing  with  well-bred  people  must  be  part  of  his 


ANNAPOLIS 

endowment.  The  teas,  the  dinners,  the  dances 
and  the  real  friendships  that  enter  into  the  life 
of  each  cadet  are  as  useful  as  they  are  delightful 
in  helping  to  develop  him  from  the  raw  country 
boy  he  may  have  been  into  the  trained  and  finished 
officer  he  is  at  graduation. 

Like  West  Point,  Annapolis  is  a  place  for  hard 
work,  not  for  play.  Athletics  are  the  chief  di- 
version at  both  these  schools.  Cadets  don't  trapse 
about  town,  don't  own  motor  cars,  don't  turn  up 
at  recitations  if  they  like  and  cut  them  if  they 
prefer.  They  must  account  for  every  hour  of 
their  day,  and  their  life  is  ruled  by  the  strictest 
discipline.  Yet  they  seem  to  get  in  a  lot  of  fun. 
In  addition  to  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the 
place  itself,  they  have  innumerable  ones  of  their 
own,  especially  for  regulating  the  lower  classes 
and  seeing  that  they  very  much  toe  the  mark. 
Hazing  has  been  stopped,  and  these  rules 
awake  more  amusement  than  anything  else,  and 
furnish  material  for  all  sorts  of  jokes  between 
individuals  in  the  different  classes.  As  each  class 
attains  graduation  it  brings  out  a  number  of  The 
Lucky  Bag,  a  stout  volume  that  is  crammed  full 
of  personal  and  particular  history.  Each  student's 
portrait  with  a  brief  and  witty-as-may-be  sum- 
mary of  his  character  and  accomplishment  is  in- 
cluded, and  there  are  hits  and  allusions,  scraps  of 
verse  and  prose,  pictures  of  the  athletic  teams, 

-1-82-*- 


ANNAPOLIS 

the  fencers  and  ball  players,  the  foot  ball  team, 
sketches  of  salient  moments,  drawings  of  lovely 
girls — a  whole  world  of  undergraduate  interest, 
frolic  and  achievement.  The  name  of  the  annual 
comes  from  an  old  ship's  custom.  On  a  cruise 
the  odds  and  ends  left  lying  about  deck  or  any- 
where else  where  they  should  not  have  been  left 
were  gathered  up  and  stowed  away  in  a  great  sack. 
At  the  end  of  the  cruise  the  contents  were  dis- 
tributed by  lot  among  the  sailors;  some  got  a 
good  haul,  some  nothing  worth  the  picking 
up. 

But  the  Naval  Academy  is  by  no  means  the 
whole  of  Annapolis.  There  is  St.  John's  College, 
lying  just  across  from  the  upper  part  of  the  reser- 
vation, the  two  being  separated  by  King  George 
Street.  This  college  was  founded  as  King 
William's  School  in  1695,  the  first  free  school  in 
America.  Its  main  building,  McDowell  Hall, 
was  begun  in  1742,  and  then  intended  for  the 
governor's  residence,  but  for  some  reason  the 
intention  remained  unfulfilled.  It  is  a  fine 
example  of  Colonial  architecture,  and  with  Hum- 
phrey Hall,  to  the  left  as  you  mount  the  slope 
of  the  campus  from  College  Avenue,  it  makes 
most  of  the  college;  there  are  four  or  five  smaller 
buildings  in  the  group,  however,  nobly  placed  on 
a  beautifully  laid  out  and  tree-covered  lawn  that 
stretches  away  to  the  northwest  as  far  as  College 


ANNAPOLIS 

Creek.  At  this  end  there  is  a  monument  to  the 
French  soldiers  and  sailors  who  fell  in  the  Revolu- 
tion, erected  by  the  Sons  of  the  Revolution. 

St.  John's  was  the  Alma  Mater  of  Francis 
Scott  Key,  as  a  bronze  tablet  in  the  fa$ade  of 
McDowell  Hall  relates.  And  there  is  another 
special  possession  of  the  college,  the  great  Liberty 
Tree,  standing  on  the  campus  part  way  up  the 
slope.  This  tree  is  a  tulip,  and  of  enormous  size. 
It  is  a  forest  in  itself,  and  as  we  stood  under  it, 
looking  up  into  the  vast  spread  of  branches,  and 
listening  to  a  world  of  birds  singing  among  the 
innumerable  leaves,  it  appeared  rather  like  the 
tree  of  some  ancient  folk  tale  than  an  actual  plant. 
Its  age  is  unknown,  but  under  its  boughs  a  treaty 
between  the  Susquehannock  Indians  and  the  first 
white  settlers  of  that  locality  was  drawn  up. 
Since  that  day  it  has  seen  countless  political 
gatherings;  here  the  early  settlers  made  rendez- 
vous to  consider  plans  for  defence,  here  Wash- 
ington and  Lafayette  walked  in  earnest  talk,  and 
beneath  it  the  French  tents  were  pitched  in 
Revolutionary  days.  Apparently  it  has  always 
been  a  notable  tree,  older  and  larger  than  any 
other,  in  all  that  countryside. 

Annapolis  is  full  of  old  and  beautiful  relics 
of  past  days.  Fire  has  wrought  less  destruction 
here  than  in  most  of  our  Colonial  cities.  Only  a 
few  years  younger  than  ivy -hung  St.  John's,  where 


ANNAPOLIS 

for  awhile  we  watched  the  collegians  drilling  on 
the  campus,  is  the  State  House,  that  stands  on 
the  highest  part  of  the  peninsula  on  which 
Annapolis  is  built,  within  the  green  circle  of  its 
parked  grounds.  The  present  building  was  begun 
in  1772,  and  is  one  of  the  finest  expressions  of 
the  architecture  of  its  noble  period.  The  bricks 
that  went  to  its  making  are  English,  and  charm- 
ingly patterned.  The  spacings  of  walls  and 
windows  are  managed  in  masterly  style,  and 
though  the  windows  are  not  large,  the  whole  effect 
carries  elegance.  A  pointed  pediment  flanked  by 
two  chimneys  surmounts  the  second  story  above 
the  pillared  portico,  and  above  all  soars  the  dome, 
a  curious  structure  in  its  detail  but  most  agree- 
able to  the  eye.  From  the  top  of  this  dome  we 
looked  out  on  the  whole  of  the  little  city,  ringed 
by  its  blue  and  silver  waters  and  dressed  in  the 
green  finery  of  hundreds  of  trees.  There  lay  the 
Academy,  a  lovely  pattern;  there  old  St.  John's, 
close  beside  us  the  ancient  church  of  St.  Anne, 
and  amid  fair  gardens  the  fair  houses  of  the  brave 
men  and  noble  who  had  made  the  capital  their 
home  through  the  long  history  the  town  has 
known. 

It  was  in  this  building,  in  the  old  Senate 
Chamber,  that  Washington  surrendered  his  com- 
mission as  Commander  in  Chief,  and  that,  a  year 
later,  the  Treaty  of  Peace  with  Great  Britain 

-J-85-*- 


ANNAPOLIS 

was  signed  and  delivered.  The  room  has  been 
kept  in  the  same  condition,  with  the  desk  over 
which  the  resignation  was  tendered  still  in  posi- 
tion. A  great  painting  of  the  event  is  hung  on 
the  wall,  and  portraits  of  the  four  Signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  who  were  citizens 
of  Annapolis,  Stone,  Chase,  Paca  and  Carroll  of 
Carrollton. 

Close  to  the  State  House,  in  the  same  Circle, 
stands  a  simple  little  one-storied  building  of  brick 
with  a  gabled  entrance.  This  is  now  apparently 
unused,  but  was  till  lately  at  least  the  Treasury. 
It  dates  from  the  Seventeenth  Century,  and  in 
it  the  House  of  Burgesses  met  in  Colonial 
days. 

£  Walking  through  these  streets  and  lingering 
by  these  old  houses  is  very  much  like  opening  a 
volume  of  our  early  history  and  stepping  into  it 
bodily,"  remarked  Sister,  as  we  sauntered  along 
the  leafy  ways.  The  very  names  of  the  streets 
belong  to  another  day.  King  George  and  Prince 
George,  Cornhill,  Hanover,  Calvert  (family  name 
of  Lord  Baltimore),  Carroll.  Here  too  is  a  Glou- 
cester Street,  that  used  to  be  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
named  after  the  same  child  honoured  in  Williams- 
burg,  whose  early  death  struck  the  joy  from  the 
heart  of  his  father,  William  of  Orange,  and  left 
Anne  childless.  And  each  street  has  its  wonderful 
old  houses,  some  set  far  back  from  the  quiet 

-f-86-f- 


ANNAPOLIS 

street,  some  closely  edging  it  and  walling  the  view 
from  the  magnolia-planted  garden  behind.  Inside, 
we  were  told,  are  doors  and  mantels  carved  by 
hand — the  mantelpiece  of  the  Brice  mansion  had 
an  international  reputation,  and  the  house  is 
notable  even  in  that  town  of  notable  homes,  with 
its  great,  flat  end-chimneys,  its  high  pitched  roof, 
the  wings  connected  by  corridors  and  buried  in 
ivy.  Then  the  Chase  House,  the  finest  specimen 
of  its  type  in  all  America,  famous  for  the  silver 
mounted  mahogany  doors,  the  great  double  stair- 
case with  its  classic  pillars  and  the  chimney  pieces 
carved  with  scenes  from  Shakespeare's  plays. 
This  wonderful  house,  whose  carved  breakfast 
room  was  fit  for  kings  to  eat  in,  is  now  used 
as  an  old  people's  home.  It  is  pleasant  to  think 
of  the  old  folk  finishing  their  days  in  a  house 
whose  own  age  is  like  a  benediction. 

The  Peggy  Stewart  House,  close  to  the  Naval 
Academy,  is  the  spot  made  notable  by  the  fact 
that  there  Peggy  watched  her  husband,  Anthony, 
set  fire  to  his  brig  with  his  own  hands  as  a  peace 
offering  to  his  enraged  townsfolk.  For  he  had 
come  to  port  of  an  October  day  in  1764,  laden 
with  tea — and  tea  was  not  being  drunk  in  the 
Colonies  then. 

Idling  along  we  found  ourselves  at  the  end 
of  Main  Street,  where  an  arm  of  the  harbour 
came  up  to  a  little  round  park  in  the  middle  of 

H-87-+- 


ANNAPOLIS 

which  was  a  well  curb,  with  the  dates  1649-1708 
cut  into  the  stone.  But  though  we  asked  several 
passersby,  no  one  knew  what  they  signified. 
Later  we  found  that  it  was  here  that  ten  families 
of  persecuted  Puritans,  crossing  the  Potomac  to 
the  Severn  side,  built  huts,  taking  advantage  of 
the  Toleration  Act,  the  glory  of  Maryland  under 
Governor  Stone.  So  part  of  the  date  was  ac- 
counted for.  It  was  in  1608  that  that  intrepid 
discoverer,  Captain  John  Smith,  first  sailed  up 
Chesapeake  Bay — perhaps  we  had  misread  the 
second  date. 

Close  to  the  park  is  the  fish  market,  and  if 
there  is  anything  more  worth  seeing  than  a  fish 
market,  why,  I  remarked  to  Sister,  bring  it  on. 
There,  in  shining  rows  and  heaps  lay  the  flashing 
catch  of  the  sea.  Heaped  in  baskets  were  oysters 
— Annapolis  has  a  big  trade  in  oysters,  packing 
away  barrel  upon  barrel  of  the  famous  Chesa- 
peakes.  Salty  men  hung  about,  wearing  battered 
hats  and  blue  shirts,  and  mumbled  to  each  other, 
indifferent  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  is  the 
fashion  of  elderly  sailor-  and  fishing-folk.  Beyond 
extended  the  wharves  and  docks,  crowded  with 
small  boats  and  smacks.  Dogs  lay  in  the  sun,  and 
small  brown  children  played  about. 

Not  far  away  was  a  place  that  had  a  sign  out, 
Sea  Food.  To  that  spot  we  went  in  haste,  and 
presently  the  oysters  were  proving  their  worth 

rt-88*- 


ANNAPOLIS 

to  us.  Oh,  the  poor,  tasteless  creatures  eaten  in 
the  white  glare  of  Broadway!  The  pitiful  apolo- 
gies that  lie,  tame  and  spiritless,  on  beautiful 
china  in  the  rich  hostelries  of  Fifth  Avenue.  More 
terrible  still,  those  flaccid  canned  abominations 
of  the  West. 

"Ha!"  I  said,  as  we  ordered  more.  And 
"  Yes,"  responded  Sister. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  cadets  get  oysters  like  these? " 
I  went  on,  as  time  passed  gently  along.  "  Fit 
reward  for  all  their  hard  work.  Why  couldn't 
we  have  met  a  cadet,  and  asked  him  questions  of 
importance,  questions  that  must  be  unanswered 
for  all  time.  There  must  be  a  good  deal  to 
Annapolis  besides  history  and  training.  But  you 
have  to  be  a  resident  to  find  it." 

"  While  at  present  we  are  more  like  the  Walrus 
and  the  Carpenter,"  said  Sister.  "  Have  you  had 
enough? " 

Once  again  we  resumed  our  lazy  tour  of  the 
town.  We  didn't  want  to  miss  seeing  Carvel 
Hall,  the  old  Paca  homestead,  and  now  a  hotel. 
It  is  a  five  minute  walk  from  the  fish  market, 
on  Prince  George  Street,  and  as  soon  as  we  saw 
it  we  wished  that  we  were  to  spend  a  long  while 
in  Annapolis,  and  that  Carvel  Hall  were  to  be 
our  headquarters.  Here  the  mothers  and  sisters 
of  graduating  students  come,  and  from  it  go 
joyous  girls  to  the  dances  at  the  Academy. 

-+•89-*- 


ANNAPOLIS 

William  Paca  was  one  of  the  governors  of  Mary- 
land as  well  as  a  Signer  of  the  Declaration,  but 
splendid  as  might  have  been  his  other  attainments, 
he  never  did  anything  finer  than  the  building  of 
this  house,  with  its  two  wings,  its  air  of  gracious 
welcome  and  warm  dignity,  a  house  that  has  an 
unforgettable  personality  aside  from  its  sheer 
beauty.  The  very  wall  that  guards  it  from  the 
street  is  a  work  of  art. 

Annapolis'  oldest  church  is  St.  Anne,  on  a 
circle  of  its  own  west  of  the  State  Houses.  It 
is  a  queer,  long,  low  structure  with  a  pointed 
spire,  dull  in  colour  but  well  overgrown  with  ivy. 
The  present  building  is  the  third  reconstruction 
of  the  original,  finished  in  1700,  and  three  times 
damaged  by  fire.  They  tell  a  story  in  Annapolis 
of  how  the  bell  given  by  Queen  Anne  rang  its 
own  knell  during  the  first  fire,  weirdly  and  un- 
accountably tolling  its  death  song.  This  story 
and  the  Communion  Set,  bearing  the  arms  of 
William  III.,  and  the  date  1695,  are  the  most 
interesting  things  about  the  old  building  to-day. 
Once  a  graveyard  enclosed  it,  but  the  buried  have 
been  removed.  St.  Anne's  is  also  noted  as  being 
the  first  missionary  meeting  place  in  America; 
the  heathen  to  be  converted  being  no  other  than 
the  Quakers  of  Pennsylvania! 

Carrollton  is  now  owned  by  the  Catholics  and 
used,  we  were  told,  as  a  monastery.  It  stands 

-+-90-+- 


ANNAPOLIS 

hidden  by  St.  Mary's  Catholic  Church,  and  no 
nearer  view  than  that  from  the  bridge  across  the 
river  could  be  had,  a  mere  glimpse.  But  the 
river  was  worth  looking  at,  and  so  was  the  outline 
of  the  town,  mounting  to  the  dome  of  the  State 
House,  and  holding,  near  or  far,  a  remarkable 
quality  of  stateliness,  a  something  not  modern 
at  all. 

"  And  in  all  the  little  city,"  remarked  Sister, 
"  there  is  not  one  shabby  spot,  not  a  minute  of 
disorder  or  decay.  Fresh  and  clean  it  is  as  this 
shining  water  and  sweet  as  the  sea  wind.  It  has 
all  that's  best  in  being  old  and  nothing  that  is 
not  best." 

You  could  not  walk  a  street  that  did  not  have 
something  worth  notice  on  it.  On  our  way  back 
to  Church  Circle  to  take  the  car  we  turned  into 
little  Charles  Street  to  look  at  the  quaint  gable-end 
house  and  printing  office  where  Jonas  Green  lived 
and  published  the  Maryland  Gazette,  founded  by 
him  in  1745,  the  first  in  the  colony.  And  as  the 
car  was  not  yet  due  we  took  the  few  steps  that 
separate  Church  from  State  Circle  to  gaze 
upon  the  old  Governor's  Mansion,  new  for 
Annapolis,  being  built  in  1867,  but  an  attractive 
place  standing  in  flower-planted  grounds  and 
finely  shaded,  like  the  rest  of  the  city. 

The  sun  was  setting  in  purple  and  gold  as  we 
turned  back  to  the  car  line.  From  the  direction 


ANNAPOLIS 

of  the  Naval  Academy  came  a  faint  echo  of  music, 
then  the  boom  of  a  gun.  The  day  was  over. 

"  We  have  seen  the  most  perfect  town  Colonial 
America  produced,"  said  Sister. 

"  And  the  Flag  Room  at  the  Academy,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Princeton 

You  do  not  have  to  ask  your  way  to  the 
University.  Its  splendour  reaches  right  to  the 
railway  station;  in  fact,  before  getting  there  we 
had  been  gazing  out  on  Brokaw  Athletic  Field 
and  beautiful  fa£ades  of  low,  long,  gracious 
buildings  built  of  grey  stone,  the  skyline  broken 
now  and  again  by  square,  battlemented  towers. 
The  very  dream  of  a  University  was  here  before 
us,  real  and  solid,  concreted  from  men's  ideals 
and  wishes  and  devotion.  Coming  from  the 
smaller,  more  ancient  William  and  Mary,  from 
the  chaste  harmony  of  the  University  of  Virginia 
and  the  sharp  if  fine  efficiency  of  Annapolis, 
Princeton  spread  before  us  with  an  effect  of 
vasteness  and  intricacy,  a  great  city  devoted  to 
learning,  a  place  where  youth  came  in  thousands 
rather  than  hundreds,  and  to  a  life  far  more 
complicated  than  that  led  by  the  students  in  the 
two  Southern  seats  of  study,  or  in  the  Academy 
where  every  effort  was  pointed  to  a  single  aim. 
"This — why,  it's  tremendous!"  exclaimed 
Sister. 


PRINCETON 

Following  the  advice  of  interested  friends  we 
did  not  immediately  enter  the  University  grounds, 
but  travelled  down  University  Place  to  Nassau 
Street,  and  by  that  thoroughfare  to  the  Fitz 
Randolph  Gate,  directly  before  old  Nassau  Hall, 
the  original  college  building.  For  there  is  nothing 
like  beginning  right,  even  when,  as  at  Princeton, 
you  couldn't  go  wrong  in  your  sight  seeing. 

There  is  a  delightful  touch  of  sentiment  in 
regard  to  this  magnificent  Gateway.  For  it  was 
given  to  the  University  by  Augustus  Van  Wickle, 
whose  ancestor,  Nathaniel  Fitz  Randolph,  was  the 
donor  of  the  ground  on  which  stands  Nassau 
Hall,  built  in  1756.  The  Gate  itself  was  put  up 
in  1905.  Its  tall  main  towers,  flanked  by  smaller 
ones,  the  fine  wrought  iron  of  gates  and  fence, 
the  massive  foundation  of  granite,  give  just  the 
right  impression  of  steadfastness  and  balance;  a 
fit  entrance  to  a  great  institution. 

Nassau  Hall  possesses  above  all  that  quality 
and  dignity  inhering  to  the  best  architecture  of 
its  period.  The  tall,  slender  cupola  and  belfry 
rise  above  the  wide  spread  of  the  wings  and  the 
beautifully  conceived  central  portion  with  a  fine 
upspringing  effect.  The  arch  of  the  door  and 
of  the  great  window  above  it  are  excellently 
planned  to  aid  in  this  combination  of  strength 
with  uplift.  The  building  is  worthy  of  its  historic 
interest. 


PRINCETON 

The  grass  of  the  Front  Campus  with  its  pattern- 
ing of  paths,  the  new-leafed  elms  and  the  thick- 
growing  ivy  over  the  Hall  added  their  loveliness 
to  the  picture  before  us.  Here  too  the  finger  of 
war  had  sketched  its  line  of  colour;  a  group  of 
students  in  khaki  were  marching  round  to  the 
left  of  the  building,  not  in  formation,  but  evi- 
dently hastening  to  some  drill.  Arms  over  each 
others'  shoulders,  comrades  chatted  together, 
bound  in  the  new  service  more  closely  than  even 
by  college  ties.  Old  Princeton  has  always  been 
eager  in  her  country's  cause;  we  saw  plenty  of 
signs  that  to-day  no  less  than  yesterday  her  sons 
were  patriots. 

Nassau  Hall,  as  we  find  in  an  old  document 
published  in  1764  by  the  Trustees  of  the  college, 
was  named  in  honour  of  King  William,  "  that 
great  deliverer  of  Britain,  and  assertor  of 
Protestant  liberty."  Here  the  whole  student 
body  was  housed,  three  in  a  room,  and  here  was 
the  library  and  a  hall,  "  of  genteel  workman- 
ship, being  a  square  of  near  forty  feet,  with  a 
neatly  finished  front  gallery."  The  architect 
was  Robert  Smith,  of  Philadelphia. 

It  has  had  its  vicissitudes.  During  the  Revo- 
lution both  British  and  Colonial  armies  used  it 
as  a  barracks,  and  pretty  well  destroyed  that 
genteel  interior,  and  two  fires,  one  in  1802  and 
the  other  in  1855,  swept  through  it,  burning  the 


PRINCETON 

library  and  doing  further  damage.  But  the  stout 
walls  withstood  both  flame  and  army,  and  are 
now  little  changed  from  their  original  appearance; 
slight  alterations  in  the  facade,  such  as  the  removal 
of  the  two  additional  entrances  it  once  possessed, 
and  the  raising  of  the  cupola,  summing  up  any- 
thing of  importance  in  outward  change.  And 
both  are  improvements. 

To-day  the  old  building  is  used  for  the  adminis- 
trative offices,  Faculty  rooms  and  such  business 
necessities. 

Back  in  1783,  from  late  in  June  to  early 
November,  as  the  Revolution  was  reaching  its 
end,  Nassau  Hall  was  the  seat  of  the  Congress 
of  the  new  Nation,  and  here  Washington  came 
frequently  to  confer  on  state  affairs.  Here  too 
he  was  tendered  the  thanks  of  Congress  for  his 
great  services,  and  here,  with  splendid  pomp,  the 
first  Ambassador  accredited  to  the  Republic, 
Pieter  J.  Van  Berckel,  from  Holland,  was  re- 
ceived. The  room  where  Congress  sat  has  now 
vanished  into  air — for  the  main  hall,  in  the  central 
part  of  the  building,  is  now  two  stories  high, 
lending  it  a  fine  spaciousness,  but  cutting  away 
the  upper  chamber  where  the  august  body  met. 

We  walked  up  into  the  gallery  to  look  at  some 
of  the  portraits,  among  them  the  Peale  portrait 
of  Washington,  painted  from  life  in  1784.  When 
the  canvas  arrived  at  the  college  the  Trustees 

-j-96  -f- 


PRINCETON 

hung  it  in  the  frame  of  "  the  picture  of  the  late 
King  of  Great  Britain,  which  was  torn  away  by 
a  ball  from  the  American  artillery  in  the  battle 
of  Princeton."  Rather  a  neat  job  the  ball  made 
of  it,  for  the  frame  is  untouched,  and  fitly  em- 
bellishes the  large  canvas,  with  Washington, 
looking  remarkably  young  and  plump  of  face, 
occupying  the  foreground  and  waving  his  sword 
toward  the  tumultuous  scene  of  Princeton  Battle, 
with  a  view  of  Nassau  Hall  in  the  dim  distance. 
A  wounded  youth  is  engaging  the  attention  of 
two  men  close  behind  the  General — but  everyone 
is  very  calm  and  elegant  about  the  whole  affair. 
You  might  spend  a  week  or  a  month,  or  perhaps 
the  whole  four  years  of  the  college  curriculum 
learning  the  history  of  Nassau  Hall.  A  faint 
breath  of  other  ages  hangs  about  the  noble  rooms, 
softly  lighted  by  the  many  ivy -hung  windows. 
At  nine  o'clock,  from  the  belfry  top  of  the  old 
tower,  curfew  still  chimes,  unheeded  but  not 
unheard.  And  on  the  steps,  flanked  by  the  two 
bronze  lions,  when  the  evenings  turn,  the  Seniors 
gather  to  sing,  after  the  old  custom,  and  it  is 
on  these  same  steps  that  they  group  themselves, 
in  carefully  unstudied  attitudes,  for  the  last  class 
photograph — packed  pretty  tight  these  days,  when 
Princeton  has  grown  so  huge.  On  these  steps, 
too,  the  honourary  degrees  to  distinguished  men 
are  conferred.  In  the  Hall  itself  Lafayette  was 

-i-97-z- 


PRINCETON 

honoured  with  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  by 
President  Witherspoon.  Nassau  is  in  truth  the 
very  heart  of  Princeton,  the  centre  of  the  college 
tradition,  the  beloved  and  beautiful  pile  to  which 
the  memory  of  each  graduate  returns  at  the  anni- 
versaries of  his  Commencement. 

"  It's  a  great  sight  to  see  the  alumni  in  all 
their  crazy  get-ups,"  said  a  friend  who  took  it  on 
himself  to  give  us  a  birds-eye  view  of  the  Univer- 
sity. "  But  this  year  it  will  all  be  different.  The 
men  who  come  will  wear  khaki,  or  else  make  no 
alteration  in  their  customary  and  conventional  ap- 
pearance. So  many  of  our  men  have  already  gone 
from  here  to  war,  so  many  belong  to  the  battalion 
or  the  aviation  corps,  and  so  many  of  our  alumni 
have  also  joined  the  colours  that  Princeton  is 
more  like  a  military  college  than  a  great  lay 
University  this  year.  Many  of  the  men  from 
the  Junior  Class  are  going  too,  and  will  probably 
never  come  back  for  their  last  year  here — I  tell 
you,  war  hits  the  colleges  pretty  hard!" 

Our  guide  was  himself  in  khaki,  and  constantly, 
as  we  wandered  on  along  the  paths  and  between 
the  buildings,  other  soldierly  figures  hailed  him, 
nodded,  saluted,  or  simply  grinned.  The  Orange 
and  Black  of  the  University  had  yielded  to  the 
dun  hue  of  America's  service;  it  seemed  to  us  that 
the  whole  of  Princeton  had  mobilised. 

"There'll  be  a  lot  of  us  thinking  of  the  old 


PRINCETON 

place  next  September,"  concluded  the  man  who 
was  so  graciously  giving  us  his  morning. 

The  college  buildings  are  beautifully  placed 
upon  the  wide-flung  grounds,  so  green,  so 
exquisitely  cared  for,  so  nobly  shaded  by  elms. 
Charming  vistas  lead  the  eye  under  arched  open- 
ings or  through  great  spans  to  further  lawns,  or 
give  on  a  sudden  wonderful  glimpse  of  square 
tower  or  Gothic  facade.  Now  you  walk  close 
under  the  windows  of  the  dormitories,  open  to 
the  spring  sun  and  showing  just  a  hint  of  the 
life  within;  now  you  confront  a  splendid  flight  of 
steps,  or  pause  to  delight  in  some  particularly 
absurd  gargoyle,  lost  in  an  eternally  humourous 
abstraction  from  the  merely  human  existences  that 
eddy  past  it. 

We  passed  the  University  Offices,  an  old  build- 
ing where  the  two  famous  societies,  the  American 
Whig  and  the  Cliosophic,  housed  back  in  the  first 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

As  everybody  knows,  these  literary  societies 
of  Princeton,  known  commonly  as  the  Halls, 
are  almost  as  old  as  the  college  itself.  They 
met  in  Nassau  Hall  before  the  building  of 
this  separate  house  in  1803,  which  was  meant  to 
be  used  for  a  variety  of  purposes  besides  those 
of  the  two  societies.  In  1838  each  society  built 
a  house  for  itself,  since  pulled  down  to  be  replaced 
by  the  beautiful  Ionic  structures  that  stand  in 


PRINCETON 

white  and  classic  elegance  fronting  the  quadrangle 
behind  Nassau  Hall,  whose  corner  stones  were 
laid  during  the  1890  Commencement,  that  of 
Clio  Hall  by  President  Patton,  and  that  of  Whig 
by  ex-President  McCosh. 

These  societies  are  unique  among  college  under- 
graduate activities,  and  they  have  been  and  still 
are  the  most  important  single  influence  brought 
to  bear  on  the  intellectual  life  of  the  students. 
They  have  weathered  all  sorts  of  storms,  and 
have  managed  to  survive  the  dangerous  competi- 
tion of  the  Fraternities  that  promised  at  one  time 
to  become  a  dominant  factor  in  Princeton's  exist- 
ence. It  was  Dr.  McCosh  who  conquered  these 
Fraternities,  the  great  McCosh,  who  was  so  similar 
to  Princeton's  earlier  great  man,  Witherspoon, 
both  in  character  and  in  the  tremendous  effect  he 
had  upon  Princeton's  growth.  There  are  strange 
coincidences  that  the  Princetonian  likes  to  relate 
concerning  these  two  Presidents  of  the  University. 
They  -came  to  rule  the  college  just  a  hundred 
years  apart,  the  one  in  1768,  the  other  in  1868, 
each  working  there  for  twenty-six  years  until  his 
death,  Witherspoon  on  November  15,  1794,  and 
McCosh  a  century  and  a  day  later.  But  this  was 
not  all.  Both  were  Scots  from  the  Lowlands, 
both  University  of  Edinburgh  men,  each  a  min- 
ister of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  important 
in  its  history.  Witherspoon  was  more  widely 

-+-100-*- 


PRINCETON 


interested  in  the  affairs  of  the  Nation  he  made 
his  own,  an  active  worker  in  the  cause  of  freedom, 
and  a  member  of  the  Continental  Congress,  and 
a  Signer  of  the  Declaration.  But  he  had  a  tre- 
mendous influence  on  the  University  and  a  strong 
effect  on  the  men  who  worked  with  him.  His 
administration  marked  a  long  forward  step  in 
the  curriculum,  as  did  that  of  Dr.  McCosh. 
McCosh  also  did  a  tremendous  amount  in  im- 
proving the  campus  and  adding  to  the  college 
buildings. 

One  of  these  Presidents  carried  Princeton 
through  the  Revolution,  the  other  came  soon  after 
the  end  of  the  Civil  War.  Princeton  suffered 
greatly  in  both  wars,  her  sons  being  among  the 
first  to  rush  to  the  colours;  in  the  Revolution  the 
tide  of  battle  swept  over  her;  while  the  Southerners, 
who  had  numbered  many  among  her  student  body, 
naturally  deserted  her  after  their  years  of  bitter 
fighting.  Witherspoon  had  had  to  rebuild  an 
almost  wrecked  institution,  McCosh  to  reconstruct 
one  that  was  immensely  weakened. 

Sister  and  I  had  been  listening  to  much  of 
this  history  as  we  walked  across  the  quadrangle 
toward  the  Halls.  In  the  centre  of  this  Quad 
is  the  famous  cannon,  standing  with  its  long 
muzzle  buried  in  the  ground.  This  is  the  Big 
Cannon,  and  was  left  behind  by  both  American 
and  British  forces,  because  of  a  broken  car- 


PRINCETON 

riage,  in  the  historic  days  of  1777.  During  the 
war  of  1812  it  was  taken  to  New  Brunswick, 
but  never  used  there,  being  considered  unsafe. 
Princeton  finally  got  it  back,  and  in  1838  it  was 
taken  to  the  college  grounds,  and  planted  in  its 
present  position  two  years  afterwards.  Here 
the  excitements  of  undergraduate  life  have  their 
whirling  centre.  Here  the  great  bonfires  blaze, 
and  here  is  the  scene  of  the  Freshman- Sophomore 
Rush,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  they  begin 
their  term. 

"  It  only  lasts  three  minutes,  that  scramble,  but 
it's  a  winner,"  remarked  our  guide.  "  More 
happens  in  those  three  minutes  round  that  old 
cannon  than  you  could  tell  of  in  three  years! 
And  I've  never  known  a  rush  yet  where  each 
side  doesn't  claim — and  prove — that  it  has  won." 

Nothing  could  look  more  peaceful  and  remote 
from  struggle  than  the  quadrangle  on  a  day  in 
May,  however.  The  men  who  were  passing  were 
all  intent  on  some  one  or  more  of  the  thousand 
activities  of  the  busy  undergraduate  life,  that 
grows  so  intense  before  Commencement.  We 
could  not  tell  one  classman  from  another,  and 
certainly  not  one  among  them  appeared  to  have 
so  much  as  three  minutes  to  spare  for  anything 
so  frivolous  as  to  get  to,  or  to  prevent  some  one 
else  from  getting  to  the  old  cannon. 

"  There  is  another  cannon  between  Clio  and 
-e-102-f- 


PRINCETON 

Whig,  and  it's  had  its  own  Revolutionary  history, 
and  stirred  up  some  excitement  in  its  time,"  we 
were  told.  "We  call  it  the  Little  Cannon.  It 
is  the  one  the  Rutgers  fellows  stole  one  night  from 
the  corner  of  Nassau  and  Witherspoon,  where  it 
had  been  partly  buried  for  years.  They  thought 
that  the  Princeton  men  had  got  it  from  them. 
This  rescue,  as  they  considered  it,  didn't  occur 
till  twenty-five  years  after  they  had  missed  their 
own  brass  piece,  and  the  whole  of  Princeton  was 
roaring  mad  when  they  found  what  had  happened. 
A  party  of  students  went  over  to  New  Brunswick, 
broke  into  the  museum  and  carted  away  some  old 
muskets,  but  couldn't  find  the  cannon.  In  the 
end,  when  Princeton  was  able  to  prove  that  the 
cannon  had  been  hers  ever  since  the  Revolution, 
we  got  it  back,  and  buried  it  in  concrete,  as  you 


see." 


We  did  indeed.  It  would  take  a  yoke  of 
mastodons  to  haul  the  piece  away  now. 

"  And  what  had  become  of  the  brass  cannon 
belonging  to  Rutgers?"  asked  Sister. 

But  there  seems  to  be  no  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion, at  any  rate  in  Princeton. 

It  is  difficult  to  get  consecutive  information 
from  an  undergraduate.  But  we  managed  to 
dig  up  something  more  regarding  the  particular 
features  of  the  two  Halls.  The  men  who  join 
the  Halls  are  those  who  are  particularly  inter- 


PRINCETON 

ested  in  debating,  in  writing,  in  oratory,  who  have 
the  forensic  gifts  and  who  want  to  follow  the 
courses  in  public  speaking  that  are  conducted  by 
the  Department  of  English  for  Hall  men,  and 
are  part  of  the  Freshman  curriculum.  The  old 
days  when  the  whole  student  body  was  divided 
between  the  Halls,  and  competition  ran  high,  are 
gone  forever.  Once  the  campaigning  for  members 
between  the  two  Halls  was  much  more  important 
than  the  "  bickering  "  among  the  clubs,  of  which 
more  later.  And  before  the  day  of  the  "  Lit  "  the 
only  literary  expression  open  to  the  students  was 
through  one  of  these  two  literary  societies. 

"But  the  Halls  are  still  a  tremendous  factor 
at  Princeton,  and  probably  they  always  will  be," 
said  our  student.  '  The  men  recognise  their  value, 
and  then  certain  prizes  and  medals  are  open  to 
Hall  competitors  only.  The  Halls  keep  their 
distinction  and  they  give  a  man  a  fine  training, 
especially  if  he  means  to  go  into  politics  or  the 
law.  Then  they  are  entirely  democratic,  and  there 
isn't  a  college  or  a  University  in  the  country  that's 
more  democratic  than  Princeton.  A  man  stands 
on  his  own  merits  here.  He  is  just  as  likely  to 
be  on  the  Senior  Council  if  he's  working  his  way 
through  college  as  if  he  has  all  the  money  in 
the  world  to  burn,  and  it's  the  same  in  the  clubs 
and  the  athletics.  The  life  here  tends  to  it,  and 
the  traditions  are  all  for  it.  The  men  all  live 


PRINCETON 

in  the  dormitories  and  eat  at  the  clubs,  that  are 
just  an  outgrowth  of  the  old  commons.  And 
there  isn't  any  splurging  here  to  speak  of — 
mighty  few  of  the  men  own  automobiles,  and  as 
there  isn't  any  city  close  by,  there  aren't  any 
great  temptations  for  spending." 

We  sauntered  back  across  the  quadrangle  to- 
ward West  College,  with  its  bright  window  faces 
and  busy  store,  the  oldest  of  the  dormitories, 
built  in  1836,  with  Reunion  beyond.  Comfortable 
structures,  each  housing  some  eighty  men.  Be- 
tween the  two  a  path  leads  to  Alexander  Hall,  a 
florid  looking  building  with  a  high  peaked  gable 
and  sharp  pointed  towers  and  altogether  too  much 
patterning  of  granite  and  brownstone.  This  is 
where  the  Commencement  and  Class  Day  exercises 
are  held,  the  public  lectures  and  similar  affairs. 
The  inside  is  mostly  given  up  to  the  auditorium, 
which  is  said  to  be  particularly  well  planned.  It 
is  very  splendid  with  mosaics  and  marbles. 

We  spent  little  time  here:  its  life  is  dormant 
during  the  usual  run  of  college  days:  but  we 
walked  on  toward  Blair  Hall,  that  confronted 
us  like  some  picture  by  Maxfield  Parrish,  ex- 
tending its  white  splendour  on  toward  Little  and 
the  New  Gymnasium  in  an  almost  unbroken 
Gothic  line.  The  white  path  sweeps  up  to  the 
huge  central  tower  and  through  the  pointed  arch, 
after  flinging  abroad  two  arms  that  lead  to  either 

-i-105-*- 


PRINCETON 

side,  running  along  the  two-storied  wings,  with 
their  charming  balconies  and  the  smaller  arches 
of  their  doors  and  windows.  Four  round  corner 
towers  buttress  and  climb  above  the  mighty  square 
of  that  central  portion,  rising  solidly  to  twice  the 
height  of  the  wings.  Seen  beyond  the  fresh 
green  boughs  of  young  trees,  the  effect  is  mar- 
vellously inspiring. 

Through  the  arch,  terraces  and  steps  lead  you 
out  from  the  University  to  the  station,  but  we 
were  by  no  means  ready  to  take  that  way  yet. 

We  turned  to  the  left  and  passed  between 
Blair  and  the  distressing  but  very  comfortable 
mid-Victorian  aspect  of  Witherspoon,  along  by 
Little  and  the  New  Gym.  It  is  difficult  to  give 
an  impression  of  this  noble  group.  Seen  from  the 
train  it  takes  the  eye  at  once,  with  its  irregular 
towers  and  the  agreeable  hue  of  the  stone  from 
which  it  is  built,  but  approached  afoot  amid  all 
the  green  charm  of  the  campus  it  is  as  fine  an 
aspect  as  America  holds.  The  Gym  is  called  the 
best  building  for  its  purpose  in  the  country,  and 
the  taste  with  which  the  Gymnasium  and  dormi- 
tories have  been  made  to  harmonise  with  and  en- 
hance each  other  is  excellent. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  Princeton  men  have  a 
tremendous  loyalty,"  I  remarked.  "  The  life 
here  is  framed  with  such  dignity,  and  it  is  so  self- 
contained.  You  don't  need  to  go  outside  the 


PRINCETON 

University  limits  to  find  all  you  can  wish  for. 
Most  colleges  and  universities  are  dependent  to 
more  or  less  extent  on  the  city  or  the  town  that 
surrounds  and  holds  them.  The  students  will 
be  scattered  all  over  in  boarding  houses,  or  go  to 
various  favourite  places  for  their  meals.  But  I 
should  think  a  Princeton  man  might  easily  forget 
there  was  any  outside  at  all." 

"  That's  the  way  to  talk,"  agreed  our  smiling 
guide,  complacently.  "And  at  that,  I  don't 
know  but  you're  exactly  right." 

There  are  outside  dormitories,  however,  he 
explained,  Upper  and  Lower  Pyne,  on  Nassau 
Street,  facing  the  front  campus,  being  beyond  the 
University  enclosure.  Nevertheless,  they  belong 
to  the  University  and  are  built  to  harmonise  with 
the  Gothic  quality  of  the  newer  part  of  Princeton, 
and  are  fascinating  in  aspect,  with  their  over- 
hanging upper  stories,  and  their  red  slate  roofs, 
that  accentuate  the  warm  tone  of  the  brick; 
their  chestnut  beams  and  cross-pieces  giving  them 
the  look  of  houses  in  some  quaint  English  town. 
Hill  Dormitory,  close  to  the  station,  is  the  one 
privately  owned  dwelling  place,  and  a  handsome 
building,  Possibly  there  are  others,  though  we 
heard  of  none  beside. 

"  It  seems  like  walking  through  a  park  to 
wander  about  this  series  of  campuses  and  quad- 
rangles," Sister  remarked.  "  The  lovely  slopes 

-j-107-*- 


PRINCETON 

and  broad  reaches,  the  spreading  trees  and  shrub- 
bery, the  sense  of  space,  and  all  these  beautifully 
related  but  uncrowded  buildings.  The  place  itself 
is  uncrowded  too,  isn't  it.  With  so  many  students 
here  it  seems  strange  that  we  see  only  a  few 
groups  and  scattered  individuals — where  are  they 
all?  Why  aren't  they  round,  enjoying  it  this 
spring  morning? " 

"  Morning's  the  time  we  stick  about  inside, 
working.  You  know,  work  is  part  of  the  business 
of  being  here!  Yes  indeed.  And  Princeton  has 
a  mighty  fine  rep  as  a  working  man's  home. 
Times  past  there  was  a  lot  of  loafing,  and  a 
'  poler '  was  in  for  a  good  deal  of  criticism.  But 
it's  different  now.  The  honour  system  and  the 
preceptorial  method  have  had  a  lot  to  do  with  the 
change,  I  guess.  I  don't  mean  that  there  isn't 
a  heap  of  larking,  and  of  course  we  are  strong 
for  athletics,  but  men  study  here  quite  unashamed 
nowadays,  and  the  biggest  athlete  may  be  an 
honour  man — and  often  is." 

Princeton  is  genuinely  athletic.  That  is  to  say, 
practically  every  one  of  her  students  goes  in  for 
some  form  of  athletics.  With  the  Freshmen  it  is 
obligatory.  They  have  to  become  swimmers,  and 
the  Department  of  Hygiene  and  Physical  Educa- 
tion generally  keeps  a  cautious  and  guiding  atten- 
tion upon  them.  Then  are  countless  ball  teams 
and  soccer  teams,  tennis  experts,  golfers,  and 

-?- 108  -f- 


PRINCETON 

what  not  of  active  exponents  of  good  health  by 
way  of  outdoor  or  indoor  sports  and  games  and 
contests.  In  the  afternoon  we  saw  any  number  of 
sprinting  youths  about  the  grounds — everywhere 
except  on  the  front  campus,  which  by  some 
unwritten  law,  is  never  used  for  athletic  purposes 
—swatting  and  catching  balls  and  variously  dis- 
porting themselves.  Golden  Field  with  its  tennis 
courts  was  crowded.  But  the  war  has  had  an 
effect  on  even  this  playing  among  the  under- 
grads.  The  drilling  takes  too  many  of  them,  and 
then  there  are  to  be  no  intercollegiate  games  this 
year,  with  all  the  training  they  enforce.  But  the 
great  swimming  tank  in  the  Gymnasium  retains 
its  popularity.  We  saw  an  unending  stream  pour- 
ing into  the  building,  and  were  told  "  They  are 
in  for  a  swim." 

"  I  can't  help  a  selfish  joy  that  I  haven't  a  son 
near  college  age  this  terrible  year,"  whispered 
Sister,  later  on  in  the  day,  when  we  sat  watching 
the  drilling  on  Brokaw  Field.  "  Look  at  that 
wonderful  sight,  all  those  splendid  youngsters, 
and  think  that  perhaps  a  name  carved  in  bronze 
will  be  all  that's  left  of  many  of  them  a  few 
months  hence.  And  this  very  minute  they  are 
drilling  back  there  in  the  Stadium  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia,  and  companies  are  forming 
at  William  and  Mary.  And  all  our  colleges  are 
telling  the  same  story  of  gallant  eagerness.  It's 

-f-109-f- 


PRINCETON 

wonderful  and  beautiful,  but  ..."  she  stopped, 
and  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes. 

But  let  us  get  back  to  the  walk  we  were  taking, 
and  which  was  now  leading  us  past  the  pleasing 
severity  of  Edwards  Hall,  once  known  as  "  Polers' 
Paradise,"  another  dormitory,  named  after  Presi- 
dent Jonathan  Edwards  and  built  in  1880,  and 
the  Italian  charms  of  ivy -grown  Dod  Hall,  ten 
years  younger,  given  by  Mrs.  David  Brown  in 
memory  of  her  brother,  Albert  B.  Dod,  a  professor 
of  mathematics  at  Princeton  for  many  years. 
Beyond  is  the  Art  Museum,  an  interesting  struc- 
ture of  handsome  brick  with  a  terra  cotta  frieze 
across  the  front,  a  copy  of  part  of  the  Parthenon 
decoration. 

"  It's  full  of  jars  and  pots  and  vases  and 
plates,"  said  our  student,  somewhat  apprehen- 
sively. "We  can  go  in  later;  but  I  think  now 
we'd  better  get  through  with  the  buildings,  as 
lunch  is  coming  on."  We  agreed  with  him,  as 
we  had  an  engagement  to  eat  at  the  Princeton 
Inn  which  we  by  no  means  wanted  to  miss.  As 
for  the  pots  and  dishes,  it  was  a  disrespectful 
manner  of  alluding  to  the  world  famous  Trum- 
bull-Pyne  collection  of  pottery  and  porcelain,  the 
finest  of  its  kind  in  the  country,  dating  back  to 
the  dim  ages  of  Egypt  and  reaching  by  many 
paths  and  expressions  to  the  later  work  of  all 
the  European  countries,  nor  overlooking  the 


PRINCETON 

Orient,  nor  yet  South  America.     We  meant  to 
return  and  enjoy  it,  but  did  not. 

"  Which  only  proves  once  again,"  I  admonished 
Sister,  as  we  realised  this  later,  and  beyond  reach, 
"  that  *  Do  it  Now '  should  be  our  college  motto." 

"  But  if  you'd  seen  them  you'd  have  felt  you 
ought  to  write  about  them,  and  who  wants  to  read 
of  china  and  pottery?  See  it,  or  don't  see  it;  but 
never  talk  of  it." 

So  perhaps  our  loss  is  another's  gain. 

Dodge  and  Murray  and  the  Marquand  Chapel 
were  the  next  group,  and  the  religious  centre  of 
the  University.  Henry  G.  Marquand  of  New 
York,  whose  grim  pale  face  as  Sargent  portrays 
it  we  had  so  often  looked  upon  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum,  donated  the  chapel,  built  of  brownstone 
with  a  slender  tower.  In  it  are  some  fine  windows, 
several  designed  by  the  late  Francis  Lathrop,  a 
connection  of  ours  by  marriage.  We  looked  on 
them  with  admiration,  and  an  obscure  feeling  that 
they  gave  us  at  least  a  tiny  claim  on  the  place. 
There  are  many  beautiful  things  on  which  to  look 
in  this  chapel;  other  windows,  those  by  La  Farge 
being  visions  of  rich  colour,  the  rose  windows, 
Louis  C.  Tiffany's  work,  and  some  particularly 
fine  reliefs.  Both  Louis  and  Augustus  St. 
Gaudens  are  represented,  the  latter  with  a  mag- 
nificent bas-relief  of  President  McCosh. 

We    stepped    out    from    the    rich    medley    of 
-z-111-*- 


PRINCETON 

colour  to  the  whiteness  of  the  day  with  almost  a 
shock.  Across  the  roadway  are  the  two  halls, 
Dodge  and  Murray,  in  the  Gothic  style  that 
Princeton  has  gradually  made  her  architectural 
expression.  They  are  joined  by  an  ambulatory, 
and  are  the  home  of  the  Philadelphian  Society, 
an  undergraduate  organisation  for  promoting  the 
religious  activities  and  interests  of  the  students. 
It  is  the  oldest  college  religious  organisation 
in  America,  having  been  founded  in  1825, 
child  of  the  Nassau  Bible  Society.  The  two 
buildings  contain  rooms  for  the  different 
classes  and  a  library  and  reading  room  and 
auditorium. 

The  entrance  to  Prospect,  the  President's 
gardens  and  house,  is  almost  opposite  and  we 
looked  across  at  their  charming  extent  with 
interest.  Prospect  slopes  upward,  with  fine 
terraces,  and  the  house  is  old  as  houses  go,  dating 
from  1849.  But  where  it  now  stands  stood  once 
the  stone  farmhouse  of  Colonel  George  Morgan, 
pioneer  and  explorer  and  Indian  Agent  in  Revo- 
lutionary times.  On  his  broad  lawns  the  Dela- 
ware Indians  pitched  their  tepees  when  they  came 
to  visit  their  friend,  leaving  behind  them  three 
of  their  young  sons,  in  order  that  these  might 
acquire  the  wisdom  of  the  white  men.  One  of 
them  got  into  college,  at  least,  but  he  gave  it  up 
finally  and  went  back  to  his  tribe.  The  old  house 


PRINCETON 

that  was  used  by  the  President  before  Prospect 
was  taken  over  for  the  purpose  is  now  the  Dean's 
house,  and  an  exquisite  example  of  Colonial  archi- 
tecture. It  was  built  in  the  same  year  with 
Nassau  Hall  and  stands  near  it.  Here  all  the 
Presidents  from  Burr  to  McCosh  lived  and  here 
three  of  them  died. 

McCosh  Walk,  with  its  tree-boughs  meeting  far 
overhead  in  true  pointed  Gothic  style,  runs  from 
the  gate  to  Prospect  on  out  to  the  Washington 
Street  exit.  It  is  the  sort  of  walk  that  would 
have  been  welcomed  by  the  Annapolis  cadet  who 
mourned  the  absence  in  the  Academy  of  any 
"  quiet  nooks."  Shadowy  and  not  too  wide,  with- 
drawn somewhat  from  the  more  rushing  and 
active  aspects  of  college  life,  it  has  possibilities 
that  are  perhaps  recognised. 

Just  before  you  reach  Washington  Street  you 
pass  the  Magnetic  Observatory,  that  hasn't  a  nail 
or  piece  of  iron  in  its  construction.  Beyond  it  is 
the  attractive  brick  building  called  Seventy-Nine 
Hall,  the  gift  of  the  class  of  that  year.  It  holds 
to  the  collegiate  Gothic  note  but  strikes  a  new  and 
individual  colour  scheme,  with  its  rosy-hued  brick 
and  sandstone. 

We  walked  up  Washington  Street  to  the 
Scientific  and  Chemical  Buildings  and  swung 
back  toward  the  heart  of  Princeton,  the  quad- 
rangle, for  we  had  not  yet  more  than  glanced 


PRINCETON 

at  the  University  Library,  which  takes  up  the 
eastern  side  of  that  beautiful  square.  Here  are 
again  the  square  towers  and  Gothic  fa9ades,  the 
charming,  whimsical  carvings  and  the  pointed 
arches  that  will  always  mean  Princeton  to  an 
American,  however  English  their  derivation. 
McCosh  Hall,  which  we  spent  some  time  study- 
ing later,  is  crowded  with  these  fantastic  bits. 
Here  are  owls  in  cap  and  gown,  marvellous  little 
policemen  and  college  authorities  fiercely  strug- 
gling with  frantic,  woe-begone  students.  We  even 
found  a  chauffeur  in  the  attitude,  if  not  the 
actuality,  of  dizzy  speed,  and  a  determined  crea- 
ture pointing  a  relentless  camera. 

"It  must  be  fun  to  go  to  lectures  and  pre- 
ceptorial conferences  in  a  place  like  that,"  Sister 
thought,  as  we  sauntered  along  the  fa9ade,  hun- 
dreds of  feet  long,  that  is  one  time  to  enclose  the 
whole  square  behind  the  Chapel,  we  were  told. 
And  the  building,  singularly  beautiful,  certainly 
has  a  chuckle  to  it  too. 

The  library  is  really  two  libraries,  the  Chan- 
cellor Greene  and  the  New,  the  latter  a  Sesqui- 
centennial  gift  from  Mrs.  Percy  Kivington 
Pyne. 

The  two  are  connected  by  a  passage  that  holds 
the  card  indices  and  delivery  desk.  The  old 
library  is  now  the  workroom  for  the  under- 
graduate body,  a  huge  octagonal.  The  new  and 


PRINCETON 

large  building  is  a  hollow  square,  splendidly 
equipped  and  furnished. 

When  we  were  little  children  we  had  often 
delighted  in  the  visits  of  Laurence  Hutton  to 
our  house,  and  we  even  had  indistinct  recollections 
of  having  seen  some  of  his  great  collection  of 
death  masks.  We  knew  them  to  be  here,  with 
other  collections  of  interest. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  a  death  mask  that 
is  compelling.  Here,  no  stiller  than  the  model 
from  which  they  were  taken,  were  the  faces  of 
Newton,  of  Burns,  of  Robert  Bruce,  of  our  own 
Franklin,  of  Wordsworth.  The  mask  of  Dean 
Swift  is  the  only  one  in  existence,  and  was  happily 
discovered  by  Hutton  in  an  old  London  shop, 
among  some  discarded  rubbish.  Altogether  there 
are  over  seventy  of  these  relics. 

There  are  many  more  buildings  that  tempt  you 
to  keep  on  exploring,  to  turn  down  this  alluring 
pathway,  go  through  a  vaulted  archway,  climb 
a  long  slope.  After  our  young  guide  had  to 
leave  us  we  found  another  magnificent  group  up 
beyond  Blair,  with  the  fine  Holder  Tower  domi- 
nating the  solemn  appeal  of  the  dormitories, 
Campbell  and  Hamilton.  Cloisters,  courts  where 
grew  great  trees,  vaulted  passages,  leaded  win- 
dow panes,  and  always  that  superb  tower  with 
its  upthrusting  pinnacles — what  a  world  of 
beauty! 


PRINCETON 

But  before  he  left  us  he  took  us  along  Prospect 
Avenue  to  the  Athletic  Field.  It  is  along  this 
handsome  avenue  that  the  clubs  that  are  so 
characteristic  of  Princeton  are  ranged. 

"  They  are  eating  clubs  first  and  last,"  we 
were  told.  "  There  are  rooms  in  most  of  them 
where  alumni  members  can  sleep,  but  the  under- 
grads  aren't  allowed  to  put  up  in  them.  You 
won't  see  much  life  in  any  of  them  except  at 
meal  hours  and  for  awhile  in  the  evening,  when 
maybe  some  one  sets  a  phonograph  going,  or  some 
of  the  fellows  want  a  game  of  bridge  or  billiards. 
No  drinks  to  be  had  in  them." 

They  are  upper  class  clubs,  and  the  elections 
are  controlled  by  a  committee  of  undergraduate 
club  members  and  another  of  the  Faculty.  These 
elections  take  place  in  February  from  the  Sopho- 
more class,  but  they  can  not  enjoy  club  privileges 
till  the  following  September,  when  they  come 
back  to  the  University  as  Juniors. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  competition  between 
the  clubs  when  it  comes  to  choosing  the  new 
members,  and  there  have  been  times  in  the  bad 
old  days  when  complaints,  sad  or  furious,  were 
justified.  But  to-day  the  system  is  as  fair  as  it 
is  possible  to  make  anything  merely  human.  This 
is  about  the  way  things  are  done: 

On  February  23  the  period  of  bickering  starts 
in.  Then  the  club  members  do  all  that  human 

-+II6+- 


PRINCETON 

eloquence  may  accomplish  to  snare  the  desirable 
Sophomore.  These  Sophs  are  chosen  to  be 
members  of  a  "  section  "  and  any  man  who  accepts 
election  to  a  section  signs  a  pledge  that  he  will 
join  that  particular  unit,  and  these  acceptances 
are  published.  Each  section  numbers  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  men,  but  there  may  be  many  others 
chosen,  as  no  limit  is  placed  on  the  number  of 
new  members. 

A  short  period  only  is  allowed  for  bickering, 
and  at  its  close  only  a  week  is  given  to  the 
elections,  during  which  formal  invitations  to  join 
the  club  are  sent  to  the  Sophomores  in  the  sec- 
tions, and  to  any  others  the  club  wants.  A 
Soph  who  has  joined  a  section  can  decline  the 
formal  invitation,  but  then  he  is  not  permitted  to 
join  any  other  club  for  another  year.  This  makes 
it  impossible  for  juggling  to  take  place.  Before 
the  bickering  period  it  is  an  offense  against  the 
rules  for  an  upperclassman  to  do  anything  that 
might  be  construed  as  an  approach  to  an  un- 
derclassman; a  rule  that  applies  to  graduate 
members  also.  This  system  seems  to  be  working 
well. 

"  Naturally  there  are  men  who  will  be  sore 
at  results,  and  there  is  jealousy  between  the  clubs 
to  some  extent,  but  that  can't  be  avoided.  They 
aren't  snobbish,  however.  Close  to  half  the  men 
who  are  working  their  way  through  are  club 

.H-  117  -*- 


PRINCETON 

members,  and  as  the  clubs  are  always  on  the 
edge  of  debt,  there  are  no  non-paying  members. 
These  men  have  to  work  for  their  club  dues  as 
well  as  their  college  expenses.  The  meals  served 
are  simple,  and  there  isn't  much  inside  luxury  to 
be  found  in  any  of  the  clubs,  fine  buildings  as 
some  of  them  are." 

So  said  our  guide.  And  the  look  of  the  charm- 
ing houses  in  their  pretty  grounds  amply  justified 
the  adjective.  They  are  sufficiently  various  in 
architecture,  but  they  all  have  an  attractive  look 
of  home.  The  Ivy  Club  is  the  oldest,  organised 
as  it  was  in  1879,  and  a  better  looking  home  would 
be  hard  to  find  anywhere. 

As  we  came  back  along  the  avenue,  after  an 
admiring  glance  over  the  immaculate  greenness 
of  the  Athletic  Field,  with  its  white-tracked  dia- 
mond, its  grandstand,  having  a  clock  in  the  tower, 
the  "  cage  "  for  indoor  practice,  the  Field  House, 
where  the  men  dress  and  showers  are  installed,  we 
met  the  club  members  hurrying  along  to  luncheon. 
It  was  a  jolly  sight,  and  judging  from  the  eager- 
ness and  speed  shown  appetites  are  good  at 
Princeton. 

"  But  you  ought  to  see  the  Field  when  there's 
a  big  game  on,"  our  guide  was  saying.  '  You 
saw  how  big  it  is — half  a  dozen  football  or  base- 
ball games  could  be  going  on  at  the  same  time. 
Well,  it  will  be  packed,  and  the  flags,  the  colour, 

-H-118-*- 


PRINCETON 

the  rushing  about  to  get  settled,  the  yells  and 
cheers — tell  you  what,  it's  great! " 

There  were  other  college  happenings  that  we 
were  earnestly  told  shouldn't  be  missed,  if  you 
wanted  a  real  idea  of  Princeton.  The  Cane  Spree, 
for  instance,  held  under  a  large  yellow  autumn 
moon  on  the  ground  between  Witherspoon  and 
Alexander;  and  the  Senior  parade  on  St.  Patrick's 
Day,  which  is  a  formal  notice  that  spring  is 
admitted  to  the  campus,  and  is  a  joyous  demon- 
stration in  which  floats,  transparencies,  costumes, 
flights  of  sarcasm  on  college  events,  skits  and  com- 
ments of  all  sorts,  not  only  on  the  undergraduate, 
but  on  the  world  at  large,  have  full  swing. 

Then  there  are  the  straining  days  of  the  mid- 
year exams,  with  midnight  oil  burning  into  the 
small  hours,  and  the  sudden  outbreak  of  "  Poler's 
recess,"  when,  at  the  ringing  of  curfew  from  the 
belfry  of  Nassau  Hall,  windows  are  suddenly 
flung  open  and  a  mad  din  of  toots,  howls,  bangs 
and  pandemonium  generally  breaks  forth,  to  last 
a  few  minutes  and  then  cease  with  startling 
abruptness. 

Yes,  the  life  of  a  student  at  Princeton  is  full 
of  variety,  and  besides  the  interests  here  hinted 
at,  there  are  scores  more;  clubs  of  all  kinds  for 
literary,  musical  and  other  pursuits,  honours  to  be 
fought  for,  all  the  fun  on  beautiful  Carnegie  Lake, 
that  used  to  be  a  dismal  swamp  and  is  now  a 


PRINCETON 

bright  and  useful  sheet  of  water  and  a  delight  in 
the  landscape. 

At  lunch  we  were  told  something  of  the  honour 
system,  now  ruling  the  examinations,  inspired  by 
those  in  vogue  in  the  Southern  colleges,  and  in 
effect  since  1893.  Of  the  Preceptorial  Method, 
by  which  a  close  contact  is  kept  between  the 
students  and  their  instructors,  the  preceptors  dis- 
cussing with  the  students  at  informal  meetings 
the  reading  they  are  to  do.  These  conferences 
between  instructor  and  student  have  proved  a 
great  success,  and  are  now  an  important  and 
integral  part  of  the  Princeton  system. 

Off  toward  the  golf  links  we  were  shown  the 
stately  buildings  of  the  Graduate  College  with 
the  Cleveland  Tower  rearing  its  graceful  height 
and  lofty  pinnacles  against  the  sky,  and  we  began 
to  feel  that  there  was  no  end  to  Princeton. 

"  You  need  a  month  to  get  a  mere  impression 
of  the  place,"  Sister  declared. 

A  kindly  automobile  driven  by  an  old  resident 
whirled  us  about  the  town,  if  town  it  may  be 
called.  To  be  sure,  it  is  growing  fast — the  tre- 
mendous interests  of  the  University  draw  more 
and  more  to  its  ancient  ways.  But  it  is  so  green 
and  so  scattered,  with  so  many  fine  old  places 
holding  their  spacious  grounds  inviolate,  that 
there  is  very  little  town  crowding.  Opposite  the 
Fitz  Randolph  gate  the  old  and  now  much- 

-+-120-*- 


PRINCETON 

changed  Nassau  Hotel,  familiarly  called  old  Nass 
by  the  students  who  haunt  its  restaurant,  takes 
up  a  large  portion  of  the  street.  Nearer  the  centre 
of  the  town  is  Princeton  Inn,  surrounded  by  a 
pretty  park.  And  many  new  buildings  are  pointed 
out  with  pride  to  the  visitor. 

But  we  preferred  the  glimpses  of  the  ancient 
houses  that  date  back  to  the  days  when  Princeton 
was  the  centre  of  the  country's  activities,  at  least 
in  a  political  sense:  the  old  house  with  its 
charming  upper  veranda  where  Washington  had 
his  headquarters,  up  on  Stony  Hill;  the  house 
of  Thomas  Clarke,  where  the  bloodstains  that 
drained  from  the  dying  Mercer  are  shown  you — 
it  is  your  own  fault  if  you  can't  make  them  out. 
In  front  of  the  house  is  a  bronze  tablet  on  a 
granite  block  to  the  General's  memory. 

Beautiful  Morven,  dating  back  to  1701,  once 
the  headquarters  of  Lord  Howe,  and  the  Bar- 
racks, where  Richard  Stockton  was  born,  of  an 
equal  age,  a  simple  stone  building  of  fine  propor- 
tions and  with  end  chimneys,  and  the  Old  Mill, 
whose  wheels  still  turn  to  the  murmuring  flow  of 
Stony  Brook,  close  to  the  unusually  beautiful 
Old  Bridge,  each  drew  from  us  the  adjectives  of 
praise.  And  of  course  we  were  whirled  out 
to  gaze  over  the  battle  field.  Here  it  was  that 
Washington,  failing  to  rally  the  disorganised 
troops  under  Mercer,  who  was  lying  dying  on 


PRINCETON 

the  field,  rode  out  in  front,  under  the  terrific 
fire  of  the  enemy,  and  sat  immovable,  facing  the 
foe.  Colonel  Fitzgerald,  who  loved  him,  drew 
his  hat  down,  over  his  eyes  that  he  might  not  see 
him  die.  But  the  appeal  was  sufficient,  and  the 
tide  of  war  was  changed. 

In  this  year  of  renewed  war  against  tyranny 
it  was  a  soul-stirring  thing  to  sit  and  look  over 
the  growing  fields  and  hear  that  story. 

We  were  struck  by  the  fact  that  Princeton 
favours  giving  names  to  its  estates,  and  that  you 
go  from  Tusculum,  built  by  President  Wither- 
spoon  in  1773,  looking  like  some  noble  English 
country  house,  to  Avalon,  with  its  pillared  portico, 
the  old  home  of  Henry  Van  Dyke,  opposite  West- 
land,  the  Cleveland  house,  equally  handsome  and 
delightfully  "  homey." 

Drumthwacket,  standing  in  a  grove  of  magnifi- 
cent trees,  with  great  sweep  of  lawns  about  it 
and  about,  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
these  splendid  places.  The  wide  spread  of  its 
wings,  the  noble  pillars  that  step  so  finely 
across  the  entire  central  portion,  the  unusual 
breadth  of  its  steps,  all  mark  it  as  one  of  the 
best  expressions  of  the  architecture  of  its  period, 
1832. 

Our  last  evening  in  Princeton  was  a  moonshiny, 
warm  and  tender  one,  that  led  us  out  under  the 
trees  of  the  University  grounds  and  round  to  the 

-M22-*- 


PRINCETON 

front  campus  with  an  almost  personal  force. 
Lights  shone  and  twinkled  on  the  grounds  and 
from  the  many  windows  of  the  dormitories  as 
we  wandered  slowly  under  the  walls  and  the 
arches.  In  the  quadrangle  a  small  group  was 
lingering  near  the  cannon,  laughing,  perhaps  over 
some  remembered  incident  of  the  Rush  or  the  last 
Commencement.  Important,  at  that  season,  are 
the  Cannon  Exercises,  ending  with  the  dramatic 
smashing  against  its  old  iron  of  the  shower  of 
long-stemmed  church  warden  pipes.  But  we  went 
on,  round  the  corner  of  Nassau. 

As  we  reached  the  campus  a  sound  of  young 
voices  swelled  and  soared — the  Seniors  were 
singing. 

Softly  we  joined  the  silent  crowd  idling  in  a 
great  semicircle  under  the  trees,  some  leaning 
against  the  trunks,  others  reclining  on  the  grass, 
groups  and  single  figures  lost  in  the  vague  and 
shimmering  shadows.  Massed  before  the  steps 
on  long  benches  sat  the  singers,  the  broad  bulk 
of  the  ancient  building  backing  them,  the  ivy, 
planted  by  so  many  different  classes,  waving  very 
slightly  on  the  walls.  Moonshine  and  shadow  fell 
on  everything  like  a  magic  veil,  and  the  sweet 
odours  of  the  spring  night  saturated  the  air.  The 
effect  was  haunting  and  indescribable,  almost 
unreal.  The  voices  sounded  strangely  sweet  and 
moving.  Song  merged  into  silence,  and  broke 

-+-123+- 


PRINCETON 

to  song  again.  Occasionally,  in  the  pauses  be- 
tween the  singing,  we  heard  the  twitter  of  an 
awakened  bird  in  the  trees  about  us. 

Too  soon  it  ended.     Singers  and  hearers  alike 
drifted  away,  and  we  with  them. 


124 


CHAPTER  V 

Yale  and  New  Haven 

WE  had  turned  our  backs  on  the  South,  and  were 
off  for  New  England,  where  colleges  are  thick 
as  daisies  in  June.  But  we  were  bent  on  seeing 
only  a  few,  since  this  pilgrimage  of  ours  had 
definite  limits. 

New  Haven  was  our  present  destination.  And 
though  the  trains  that  run  to  the  old  city  are 
the  best  you  can  ask  for,  the  depression  of  getting 
out  at  that  inconceivably  atrocious  and  ancient 
station  is  sufficient  to  wipe  away  the  pleasing 
impression  of  the  smooth  and  comfortable  ap- 
proach. However,  there  are  signs  of  a  new  birth, 
and  before  much  longer  New  Haven  will  probably 
be  boasting  of  one  of  the  star  stations  on  the 
whole  line. 

You  must  begin  seeing  New  Haven,  and  Yale 
too  for  that  matter,  in  a  particular  manner. 
You  simply  have  to  start  at  the  Green  and  with 
the  row  of  old  churches  that  lend  it  such  original- 
ity and  distinction.  It  was  here  that  New  Haven 
itself  began,  and  as  it  was  perhaps  the  only 
old  town  we  have  in  the  country  that  was 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

definitely  planned  from  the  moment  of  settling, 
it  deserves  a  certain  respect — we  couldn't  be 
haphazard. 

It  was  in  1638  that  a  company  of  English 
Christians — and  they  were  most  particular  as  to 
the  Christian  element,  and  very  grim  about  it- 
walked  up  the  slope  from  the  sea,  headed  by  two 
of  their  number,  John  Davenport  and  Theophilus 
Eaton;  and  stopping  at  the  identical  spot  where 
now  the  exquisite  proportions  of  Centre  Church 
dignify  the  Green,  they  founded  New  Haven, 
under  the  Indian  name  of  Quinnipiac.  The  fol- 
lowing year  they  built  there  their  first  house  of 
worship.  Not  only  was  it  that,  but  for  a  number 
of  years  it  was  practically  the  centre  of  the 
settlement's  activities  in  many  directions,  a 
meeting  place,  court  house,  voting  booth  and 
what  not  of  the  useful  and  important. 

With  the  original  group  was  a  civil  engineer, 
who  had  come  along  for  love  of  a  fair  maiden. 
On  him  devolved  the  duty  of  planning  the  pro- 
posed town,  and  he  laid  out  the  Green  and  the 
streets  adjacent.  His  conception  was  spacious 
and  orderly,  and  it  has  been  followed  to  this  day. 

Other  buildings  superseded  the  original  struc- 
ture, but  in  1814  the  present  church  was  erected, 
and  it  combines  every  charm  and  grace  of  that 
fortunate  period  in  American  architecture,  from 
the  noble  proportions  of  its  body  to  the  top  of 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

its  heaven-y-pointing  spire.  To  the  right  of  it  is 
United,  or  as  it  was  called  earlier,  North  Church, 
also  a  beautiful  building,  of  brick  painted  a 
Colonial  yellow,  with  a  white,  blunt  spire,  and 
to  the  left  is  the  Episcopal  Church,  of  stone,  over- 
grown with  ivy.  These  two  were  also  built  in 
1814. 

Standing  well-spaced  in  a  row  near  the  centre 
of  the  Green,  with  fine  elms  about  them  and 
Temple  Street  running  directly  before  them,  while 
the  broad  lawns  slope  down  in  front  and  rise 
slightly  behind,  to  the  unbroken  line  of  the  Uni- 
versity buildings  that  front  on  the  Green  in 
Gothic  splendour,  the  whole  effect  is  impressive. 
New  Haven  has  an  opportunity  for  an  unusual 
civic  centre  here.  Many  fine  buildings  already 
face  the  great  square,  the  newer  ones  following 
the  Greek  idea.  Among  them  are  the  Public 
Library  and  the  Court  House,  built  of  white 
marble.  The  Taft  Hotel  has  aped  the  modern 
sky-scraper,  and  though  handsome  in  its  way,  it 
is  entirely  out  of  character  with  the  finer  portions 
of  the  square,  and  there  are  many  mean  and  poor 
examples  of  what  the  lack  of  any  coherent  plan 
can  do  to  spoil  a  noble  situation.  Perhaps  in 
the  future  the  city  will  exert  some  effort  to  have 
the  buildings  fronting  on  the  Green  conform  to 
what  is  best  there  now.  When  it  does,  New 
Haven  will  possess  something  superb,  something 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

worthy  of  the  vision  that  must  have  animated 
her  original  designer. 

Behind  Centre  Church  used  to  lie  the  grave- 
yard. Now  a  tablet  in  the  rear  wall  relates  that 
the  body  of  the  first  Governor  of  the  Settlement, 
that  same  Eaton  who  led  the  little  company  up 
the  slope,  lies  nearby,  and  here,  in  a  railed-in 
space  a  few  feet  back  from  the  church,  is  buried 
the  regicide,  John  Dixwell,  with  the  old  stone  still 
marking  the  grave,  though  a  new  monument  put 
there  by  his  descendants  carries  carved  upon  it 
the  main  account  of  his  life  and  death. 

Dixwell  came  to  New  Haven  later  than  two 
other  regicides,  who  stirred  up  considerable  excite- 
ment in  New  Haven  in  1661,  playing  a  regular 
game  of  hide  and  seek,  with  life  as  the  prize  and 
death  as  the  penalty.  John  Davenport,  who  had 
himself  been  a  friend  of  Cromwell's,  gave  them 
faithful  assistance,  keeping  them  hidden  in  his 
house  for  weeks,  but  as  the  search  grew  more 
pressing  a  securer  hiding  place  must  be  found, 
and  so  the  two  unfortunate  gentlemen  sought  a 
rough  shelter  in  Judge's  Cave,  on  West  Rock, 
which  is  more  of  a  pile  of  stones  than  a  true 
cave.  Here,  and  in  other  desperate  places,  they 
spent  two  years,  finally  making  good  their  escape 
to  Hadley,  Mass.,  where  they  are  lost  sight  of. 
The  name  of  one  was  Edward  Whalley;  New 
Haven  has  named  the  avenue  running  out  toward 

•H-  128  -*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

the  Rock,  and  incidentally  Yale  Bowl,  in  his 
honour. 

It  all  makes  a  curious  link  between  the  city 
and  the  days  of  Charles  II. 

There  were  many  other  among  the  old  settlers 
and  among  the  later  citizens  who  were  buried 
behind  Centre  Church.  Beneath  it  the  crypt 
contains  the  remains  of  the  early  Puritan  families. 
But  in  1796  the  old  headstones  and  the  bones  of 
many  of  those  whose  names  stand  high  in  New 
Haven's  history  were  moved  out  to  the  Grove 
Street  Burial  Ground,  which  is  now  the  oldest 
in  the  city,  a  place  of  quiet  charm  and  green 
alleys,  crowded  with  illustrious  dead,  among  whom 
are  Noah  Webster,  Theodore  Winthrop,  Jedediah 
Morse,  President  Dwight,  of  Yale,  and  many 
more  of  the  University's  presidents  and  distin- 
guished professors,  with  admirals,  governors, 
generals,  and  folk  of  lesser  quality. 

Big  and  busy  as  New  Haven  is,  and  it  is  all 
of  both,  it  is  none  the  less  dominated  by  the  great 
University  with  which  it  is  identified.  Yale  is 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  town.  And  since  her 
dormitories  are  by  no  means  sufficient  to  house 
her  students,  many  of  these  are  scattered  through 
certain  areas,  within  easy  reach  of  the  college 
buildings,  so  that  the  undergraduate  life  mingles 
with  that  of  the  old  city  to  a  greater  degree  than 
had  been  the  case  with  those  colleges  and  uni- 

-J-129-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

versities  we  had  been  visiting.  Every  street  seems 
to  lead  to  the  Green  on  which  the  University 
turns  one  splendid  frontage,  or  right  into  some 
one  or  other  of  the  many  groups  into  which  the 
University  divides.  Even  the  water's  edge  holds 
the  Yale  Boathouse,  and  from  the  precipitous 
slopes  and  lofty  heads  of  West  or  East  Rock 
you  get  your  finest  outlooks  on  the  whole  extent 
of  the  University. 

We  were  to  have  the  rare  distinction  of  eating 
at  Mory's,  that  haunt  dear  to  generations  of 
underclassmen;  not,  to  be  sure,  in  one  of  the 
general  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  but  upstairs, 
in  the  Governor's  Room,  unseen  if  not  unseeing. 
Before  that  hour  we  had  time  on  our  hands  that 
should  allow  an  opportunity  to  get  some  idea 
of  the  various  campuses  and  the  buildings  that 
enclosed  them  or  fronted  on  them. 

"  Let's  go  through  that  splendid  arch  under 
Phelps  Tower,"  Sister  demanded.  "It  is  some- 
thing like  Princeton's  Tiger  Gate,  through  Blair, 
except  of  course  that  it  is  so  very  different." 

The  description  seemed  to  me  entirely  logical 
at  the  time,  though  perhaps  it  may  puzzle  those 
who  have  never  walked  through  either. 

This  whole  portion  of  Yale  is  Gothic,  the  Old 
Library,  facing  Phelps  across  the  campus,  having 
been  pronounced  the  finest  specimen  of  that 
type  in  America.  In  the  old  days  Yale  was 

-e-130-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

strictly  Colonial,  built  of  brick  with  white  stone 
window  and  door  facings,  plain  but  beautiful  in 
line,  as  the  sole  survivor  of  that  period  amply 
witnesses.  This  is  Connecticut  Hall,  and  nobly 
it  keeps  its  dignity  and  poise  beside  the  newer 
buildings  built  on  an  older  plan  that  surround 
it.  Standing  alone  in  one  corner  of  the  campus, 
partially  hung  with  vines,  the  fine  old  structure 
strikes  a  vibrating  note  of  peculiar  charm.  Once 
it  was  known  as  Middle,  or  as  South  Middle.  At 
that  time  it  made  one  of  a  long  and  similar  row 
that  looked  down  upon  the  Green,  and  which  have 
long  since  vanished. 

It  was  in  this  building  that  Nathan  Hale  had 
his  room,  as  a  bronze  tablet  sunk  into  the  wall 
testifies,  while  before  the  building  stands  the  statue 
of  the  youthful  patriot,  one  of  the  last  pieces  made 
by  the  late  Belah  Pratt,  a  bronze  that  is  singularly 
unstudied  and  appealing.  The  building  is  still 
used  as  a  dormitory,  and  here  the  Dean  has  his 
office. 

Upon  this  campus,  besides  the  Library  and 
Phelps,  face  the  ivy-draped  fa£ades  of  the  Art 
School,  with  Dwight  and  Wright  Halls  and 
Vanderbilt  Hall,  one  of  the  most  sumptuous  of 
dormitory  buildings.  Osborn  completes  the  stately 
quadrangle. 

Although  the  elm  beetle  has  done  some  evil 
work  in  New  Haven,  and  on  this  campus,  there 

-i-131-e- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

are  many  splendid  trees  that  show  little  trace  of 
his  havoc.  The  light  falls  broken  and  soft  on 
the  lovely  walls,  that  are  so  rich  and  yet  so 
restrained  in  ornament.  Although  these  buildings 
are  not  old,  they  have  the  temper  and  the  tone 
of  age,  a  mellow  ripeness  that  has  been  greatly 
assisted  by  the  mild  climate  of  the  neighbourhood, 
lending  an  English  lushness  to  vine  and  green- 
sward, and  tinting  the  stones  to  ancient  hues. 

This  is  of  course  a  very  small  part  of  the 
University,  but  here  it  began,  and  here  it  reaches 
its  greatest  distinction. 

Behind  this  campus,  on  the  further  side  of  the 
Library,  runs  High  Street.  Here  was  the  Pea- 
body  Museum,  chiefly  given  over  to  natural 
history  and  specimens  and  collections,  which 
is  now  in  process  of  demolition  and  transfer 
to  Sachem's  Wood.  High  Street  has  another 
note  of  interest  in  the  Brick  Row  Book  and 
Print  Shop,  managed  by  Mr.  E.  Byrne  Hackett 
according  to  a  plan  of  his  own  that  has  resulted 
in  making  the  place  a  real  little  club  for  the  book- 
lovers  among  the  undergraduates.  No  one  is 
ever  asked  to  buy  a  book  in  this  unique  estab- 
lishment. You  may  come,  week  after  week  and 
month  after  month,  you  may  come  every  day 
of  your  whole  college  career,  should  you  be  so 
minded,  and  read  to  your  heart's  content,  finger 
one  volume  after  another,  gaze  with  appreciation 


o 

*  <?^ 

k< 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

on  the  old  and  new  prints  and  engravings,  the 
first  editions,  the  superb  copies  of  famous  works 
stacked  in  rows  or  pinned  on  the  walls,  as 
the  case  may  be,  and  no  one  will  suggest  that  his 
business  is  to  sell  what  here  is  gathered.  We 
spent  a  happy  period  proving  this  for  ourselves 
before  we  were  joined  by  Mr.  Hackett,  who, 
being  one  of  the  governors  of  Mory's,  had  offered 
to  sponsor  our  visit  there.  The  room  below  is 
a  solid  mass  of  books,  row  on  endless  row,  with 
moving  ladders  that  let  you  get  where  you  will. 
Up  a  fascinating  winding  stair,  with  wonderful 
bits  of  old  carving  and  a  priceless  print  or  two 
hung  against  its  wall,  we  found  a  great  wide 
chamber  where  there  were  more  books.  Also  broad 
window  seats  in  each  of  the  big  windows,  several 
of  which  overlook  the  building  containing  the 
swimming  tank,  given  by  Carnegie.  This  tank, 
with  the  lake  at  Princeton  that  came  from  the 
same  spring,  reveal  a  new  bent  in  the  Carnegian 
character.  Apparently,  when  it  comes  to  colleges, 
he  feels  that  there  are  other  needs  than  a  library. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  we  camped  very  contentedly 
in  one  of  those  soft-cushioned  seats,  as  we  were 
told  the  students  had  a  way  of  doing. 

:<  Every  window  will  be  filled  of  an  after- 
noon," said  Mr.  Hackett,  "each  of  the  boys 
with  one  or  more  books  in  his  clutches.  They 
feel  at  home  here,  and  they  get  to  feel  at  home 

-+•133-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

with  books,  which  is  what  we  want.  Many  and 
many  a  young  fellow  has  got  his  first  taste  for 
collecting  right  in  this  room.  They  are  at  liberty 
to  wander  all  over,  to  come  back  into  my  office 
for  a  chat  with  me,  or  to  squeeze  in  anywhere 
there's  room  for  them.  Hardly  one  but  gets  to 
be  a  book  buyer  before  long,  gets  to  want  a 
little  library  of  his  own,  learns  about  fine  editions 
and  old  copies,  or  grows  interested  in  prints.  The 
place  has  come  to  be  an  informal  club." 

It  was  easy  to  feel  the  fascination  it  exerts, 
bookish,  leisurely,  spacious  and  friendly,  with  its 
few  pieces  of  rare  old  furniture,  carved  tables  and 
secretaries  contriving  to  make  it  still  more  home- 
like. 

We  did  not,  however,  reach  the  Brick  Row 
Shop  so  early  in  our  wanderings.  First,  with 
tireless  feet  and  mounting  enthusiasm,  we  moved 
from  one  to  another  of  Yale's  many  buildings, 
trying  to  get  a  coherent  notion  of  their  extent 
and  number. 

"  Quite  a  job,"  as  Sister  said. 

On  Elm  Street  we  found  a  whole  row,  built  of 
light  coloured  stone,  in  which  were  the  Gym- 
nasium, as  well  as  the  Law  and  Divinity  Schools. 
Then  there  is  University  Court,  where  the  Bi- 
Centennial  buildings  carry  on  the  great  story, 
and  along  Hillhouse  Avenue  the  Sheffield  Scien- 
tific School  has  its  splendid  being.  This  avenue 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

is  one  of  New  Haven's  show  places.  It  is  short 
but  very  wide  and  finely  parked,  with  huge,  over- 
arching trees  that  make  a  lofty  canopy  where 
orioles  whistle  and  nest  in  a  paradise  of  leaves. 

Further  afield  still  are  the  Observatory  and  the 
School  of  Forestry.  This  school  was  founded  by 
J.  W.,  father  of  Gifford  Pinchot,  who  has  meant 
so  much  to  American  forestry,  in  1900,  and  the 
Botanical  Gardens  near  by  were  established  by 
Professor  C.  C.  Marsh,  on  his  own  estate.  The 
school  was  established  to  meet  a  direct  need  by 
the  Government  for  trained  foresters.  It  is  the 
oldest  school  of  forestry  we  have,  and  it  is  ad- 
mittedly the  best  and  most  influential.  In  1916 
there  were  153  Yale  men  in  the  U.  S.  Forestry 
Service,  and  twelve  out  of  the  twenty  schools 
organised  in  as  many  states  are  directed  by  Yale 
men. 

There  are  two  phases  of  Yale  life  that  get  their 
material  form  in  the  Yale  Bowl  and  in  the  just- 
finished  Armory  for  the  Yale  Battalion,  consisting 
of  four  batteries  of  field  artillery,  organised  in 
October,  1915,  and  tremendously  "  oversub- 
scribed," from  the  first.  In  this  year  the  battalion 
is  only  a  part  of  the  immense  response  Yale  has 
given  the  war,  but  it  represents  the  permanent 
interest  taken  by  the  undergraduates  in  military 
training  and  instruction,  as  well  as  the  backing 
of  the  Faculty.  It  was  under  the  advice  of 

-«- 135  -«- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

General  Wood  that  Yale  decided  to  aid  in 
strengthening  one  of  the  weakest  arms  of  our 
military  force.  The  beautiful  armory,  to  be 
dedicated  later  in  the  year,  probably  at  Com- 
mencement, has  been  erected  by  the  graduates  of 
the  University,  under  the  enthusiastic  leadership 
of  Anson  Conger  Goodyear,  '99,  and  is  placed 
close  to  the  Bowl.  We  saw  it  from  across  the 
field,  concrete  result  of  a  patriotic  fervour  that 
has  always  marked  Yale.  A  thousand  and  more 
of  her  students  drill  every  day  in  one  branch  or 
another,  and  hundreds  have  been  taking  the 
examinations  for  Plattsburg.  It  was  the  same 
story  here  as  elsewhere:  the  colleges  are  running 
to  meet  the  country's  call  with  eager  readiness^ 
and  the  difficulty  is  not  to  get  the  men  to  enlist 
in  its  service,  but  to  persuade  them  not  to  sacrifice  . 
their  prospects  and  their  youth  too  early. 

We  came  to  the  Bowl  with  a  young  mjin  who 
had  graduated  only  two  years  ago,  but  who 
had  already  done  his  share  to  maintain  another 
of  Yale's  traditions — that  of  marrying  more 
promptly  after  graduating  than  the  men*  of, any 
other  among  our  universities.  He  led  us  uj^  into 
the  vast  cup  with  pride.  Empty  it  stood,-,  ancf 
empty  it  will  stand  all  this  year,  and  who  knows 
for  how  long  besides,  but  how  splendid  it  was 
in  that  emptiness.  We  clirpbed  to  the  topjnost 
ridge  of  seats  and  gazed  down  to  the  circle*  of 

-*•  136  -*-. 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

brilliant  green  where  such  mighty  combats  have 
been  staged,  with  every  inch  of  space  in  those 
innumerable  tiers  occupied  by  frenzied  partisans 
of  the  contesting  teams.  Here  the  Yale  songs 
and  Yale  cheers  have  echoed  again  and  again, 
both  in  defeat  and  victory.  Here  thousands  of 
flags  have  fluttered  to  the  shouts  and  songs,  the 
whole  vast  circle  has  rocked  and  flamed  with  sound 
and  colour  under  "  that  inverted  bowl  we  call 
the  sky,"  which  seems  hardly  more  gigantic.  But 
now  it  stood  breathless,  shimmering  slightly, 
hugely  silent  .  .  . 

'  What  a  sight  it  must  be  in  moonlight," 
whispered  Sister,  as  we  sat  there,  our  imagination 
striving  to  conjure  back  into  that  immense  soli- 
tude the  massed  tempest  of  its  crowded  hours. 

You  had  to  whisper  there. 

As  we  went  back  toward  the  campus  our  Yale 
graduate,  even  as  had  happened  in  Princeton, 
kept  remembering  things  that  we  ought  to  have 
seen  somehow,  if  we  were  to  do  Yale  any  sort  of 
justice.  Woolsey  Hall  at  Commencement,  and 
the  lanterns  shining  orange  amid  the  elms  of  the 
campus.  The  Procession  of  the  Alumni  Qn  its 
way  from  Hewitt  Quadrangle.  The  Addttlsses  in 
Battell  Chapel.  All  this  was  Yale's  stately  side. 

"  At  Mory's  you'll  hear  about  some  of  the 
undergrad  clubs,"  he  told  us.  "  The  Hogans, 
extinct  for  the  moment,  but  unforgotten  and 

-?-137  -*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

probably  to  be  revived,  the  Whiffenpoofs,  the 
Pundits.  And  then  there's  the  literary  side,  the 
men  who  edit  the  Lit.,  the  Courant  and  the 
Record,  not  to  speak  of  the  Yale  Daily.  They 
are  a  big  influence  in  the  college  life." 

We  felt  that,  aside  from  information,  it  was 
distinctly  time  for  Mory's.  Sightseeing  in 
cloistered  campuses  and  wind-fresh  Bowls  had 
had  its  effect.  We  were,  in  short,  ravenous. 
And  there,  awaiting  us,  stood  our  host,  before 
the  quaint  little  wooden  building  that  shelters 
the  famous  restaurant. 

A  narrow,  boxed-in  stairway  led  us  to  the 
second  floor  and  the  Governors'  Room,  with  its 
great  round  table  and  Windsor  chairs,  its  Hogarth 
prints  on  the  wainscoted  walls,  its  cheerful  little 
windows  with  the  small  panes  of  an  older  day. 
Here  on  the  oaken  board  the  covers  were  set, 
and  here,  smiling  with  entire  good  nature  at  this 
invasion  of  his  castle  by  the  forbidden  sex,  was 
Billy,  the  steward,  making  us  feel  at  home  and 
welcome  on  the  spot. 

The  menu  at  Mory's  resembles  those  in  English 
chop  houses.  It  is  simple,  excellently  cooked  and 
abundant  in  its  portions.  Sister  and  I  found 
them  too  big  for  us,  and  we  are  quite  capable 
of  holding  our  own  after  a  morning's  exercise 
such  as  lay  behind  us.  The  specialty  that  morn- 
ing was  scrambled  eggs  with  bacon,  and  it  was 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

real  bacon,  savoury  of  the  smoke  house,  no  flaccid 
imitation  treated  with  what  is  imaginatively 
described  as  "  liquid  smoke."  Toast  too,  and  tea, 
and  wonderful  pie  with  cheese.  Students  who 
have  haunted  Mory's  will  later  on  in  life  bitterly 
complain  to  distracted  wives,  wondering  why  they 
cannot  have  meals  "like  Mory's  used  to  make." 
Perhaps  this  is  the  reason  why  women  are  not 
allowed  in  the  delectable  place.  At  any  rate,  no 
mother  sending  her  son  to  Yale  need  worry  for 
fear  he  won't  get  meals  as  good  as  those  he  gets 
at  home.  So  long  as  Mory's  endures,  home  cook- 
ing has  a  goal  set  for  it. 

Over  our  luncheon  we  heard  talk  of  the  famous 
undergraduate  clubs  that  have  met  at  Mory's 
these  many  long  years,  and  have  made  the  name 
dear  to  Yale  men  the  round  world  over.  How 
dear  was  made  evident  not  so  many  years  ago 
when  Mory's,  having  had  two  bad  years,  and 
finding  the  neighbourhood  where  it  had  been  since 
1871  to  be  no  longer  satisfactory,  almost  decided 
to  quit.  An  item  to  this  effect  was  printed  in  a 
New  York  paper  and  ran  broadcast  over  the 
country,  reaching  even  into  distant  ports  in  China, 
India,  Southern  islands  below  the  far  horizon's 
edge — and  back,  post  haste,  came  letters  of  des- 
perate appeal  from  Yale  men.  What?  Close 
Mory's?  It  was  unthinkable. 

Luckily  Mory's  didn't  have  to  close.    It  found 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

new  quarters  within  easy  range  of  the  University, 
and  moved  up,  body  and  soul.  For  not  only  was 
the  spirit  of  the  old  place  completely  transferred 
to  the  new  home,  but  the  very  window  frames,  the 
furniture,  the  bar,  the  ancient  black  door  with  its 
bright  brass  trimming  that  admits  you  from  the 
street,  all  these  came  too.  Wainscoting  replaced 
paper,  the  trophies  of  fifty  years  took  their  accus- 
tomed places  over  the  identical  chimney  pieces, 
and  Yale  settled  back,  content. 

It  was  Louis  Linder  who  made  Mory's  what 
it  is,  taking  it  from  Mrs.  Moriarty  as  a  popular 
place  where  town  men  came  more  often  than 
college  members,  a  place  known  for  good  food 
and  good  drink,  but  lacking  the  distinction  he 
gave  it.  Louis  Linder  loved  the  undergraduates, 
and  they  loved  him.  He  made  the  place  their 
place.  Gradually  it  became  completely  identified 
with  them,  and  with  the  graduates  who  had  known 
it  in  their  own  student  days.  Now  it  is  only 
members,  and  there  are  fifteen  thousand  of  them, 
95  per  cent  identified  with  Yale,  and  their  guests, 
who  have  the  entree.  Before  Linder  died  he  had 
formed  plans  to  make  an  association  that  should 
take  the  management  of  Mory's,  but  death  came 
before  the  arrangements  were  completed.  His 
idea  has  been  carried  out,  however,  and  the  place 
is  run  by  a  board  of  governors  whose  services 
are  entirely  voluntary. 

'-*- 140  -f- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

But  the  business  side  of  Mory's,  though  im- 
mensely important,  is  not  the  side  that  fascinated 
either  Sister  or  me.  It  was  the  human  side,  and 
what  a  human  place  it  is! 

The  most  famous  of  the  clubs  that  make  their 
headquarters  at  Mory's  are  the  Hogans,  at  present 
suppressed,  but  due  some  happy  day  to  revive 
again.  The  Pundits,  whose  huge  old  brass  flagon 
stands  nobly  on  its  shelf  till  it  is  filled  with 
cider  for  their  feasts.  Cider  is  their  drink,  and 
scrambled  eggs,  sausage,  hashed  brown  potatoes, 
apple  pie  and  cheese  their  food.  The  Cup  Men, 
limited  to  six,  one  being  a  Bones,  three  Keys 
and  two  St.  Anthony  men,  who  own  the  great 
pewter  loving  cup  with  its  six  handles,  carved  over 
with  the  names  of  the  various  members,  among 
which  are  such  as  W.  H.  Vanderbilt,  Harry 
Payne  Whitney,  Jim  Gamble  Rogers,  all  Cup 
Men  in  their  day.  A  particular  cup  is  served, 
made  from  a  recipe  brought  from  England  by 
Truman  Newberry,  later  Secretary  of  the  Navy, 
which  is  called  for  under  the  name  of  "  Velvet." 
The  sessions  of  the  Cup  Men  are  lively,  and 
prolonged,  it  is  whispered,  beyond  the  midnight 
hour  at  which  Mory's  is  suppose  to  close—  "  But," 
as  Billy  told  us,  with  his  tolerant  smile,  "you 
can't  get  them  out." 

Then  there  are  the  Whiffenpoofs,  also  at 
present  under  temporary  eclipse,  for  the  college 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

authorities  have  a  way  of  sudden  suppression 
when  wild  spirits  grow  too  wild.  The  Whiffen- 
poofs  have  somewhat  evaded  extinction  by  holding 
a  series  of  burial  parties  in  which  they  take  a 
fond  and  formal  farewell  to  life,  only  to  repeat 
the  performance  next  year.  They  come  in  cos- 
tume and  they  sing — besides  other  things  of  a 
joyous  nature,  as  well  as  a  noisy  one. 

Perhaps  they,  more  than  any  other  of  the 
clubs,  led  to  Mory's  being  given  the  nickname  of 
The  Quiet  House.  It  is  not  much  used  nowadays, 
but  once  it  was  more  common  than  its  real  name. 

Billy  went  on  a  scouting  tour  as  we  sadly 
refrained  from  eating  more  pie,  and  returned  to 
report  that  the  last  student  had  gone,  and  we 
might  go  down  and  "  see  the  rest." 

So  down  the  crooked  stairs  we  went  and  into 
the  first  of  the  several  small  square  or  oblong 
rooms  into  which  Mory's  divides.  In  the  Seniors' 
room  was  the  round  table  known  as  the  Seniors' 
Table,  at  which  no  man  not  a  Senior,  or  guest  of 
a  Senior,  may  sit.  Round  about  the  room  are 
the  usual  oblong  tables  for  other  classmen. 

The  round  table  is  beautifully  carved  with  the 
initials  of  those  who  sit  at  it,  year  following  year, 
till  it  is  so  completely  covered  that  there  is  room 
for  no  more.  In  the  centre  of  each  table  is  the 
circle  of  the  Cup  Men,  with  their  initials,  or  their 
names,  and  dates  of  their  classes,  and  among 

-J-142-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

the  other  signatures  are  those  of  distinguished 
guests — we  made  out,  among  the  many,  a  W.  B. 
Y.,  cut  by  Yeats  when  he  was  a  guest  there. 
When  each  of  these  round  tables  is  quite  full, 
it  is  taken  off  and  hung  against  the  wall  in  one 
of  the  rooms,  and  a  splendid  decoration  these 
tables  make,  the  dark  wood  gleaming  richly  under 
the  carving  that  has  been  beautifully  done. 
There  is  a  lot  of  practicing  at  the  other  tables 
before  the  actual  work  on  the  sacred  circle 
itself. 

And  as  we  went  from  one  room  to  another, 
more  items  kept  coming  from  Billy — how  the 
Brown  Game  was  the  great  day  of  the  Whiffen- 
poofs,  and  that  their  parties  had  a  distinctly 
Johnsonian  flavour.  Mention  too  of  the  wonder- 
ful Green  Cup,  whose  ingredients  are  a  secret, 
handed  down  from  steward  to  steward,  that  costs 
six  dollars  a  quart  and  is  as  delectable  as  it  is 
potent.  How  the  Hogans  each  had  a  name,  such 
as  the  Kid,  naturally  the  biggest  and  the  huskiest 
of  the  lot,  the  Plain  Hogan,  the  Pop,  the  Burglar, 
Birdie  and  so  on.  When  a  Kid  Hogan  has  a  son 
who  is  his  first  born,  that  kid  is  to  be  an  honourary 
member;  but  so  far  the  eldest  have  been  girls. 
In  the  meanwhile  presents  are  accumulating  for 
the  youngster.  We  saw  them  hanging  on  the 
wall,  tiny  boxing  gloves,  a  small  pair  of  Chinese 
clogs,  sent  by  a  Hogan  from  that  distant  place, 

-J-143-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

a  wonderful  striped  shirt  and  attractively  smart 
little  knickers,  with  other  tokens  of  yearning  af- 
fection. But  so  far  the  cradle  is  empty. 

The  Hogans  were  specially  favoured  at  Mory's, 
and  they  were  dearly  loved.  Five  or  six  only, 
they  were  the  choicest  spirits  in  the  college.  Food 
and  drink  was  always  free  to  them,  and  is  to  this 
day.  Once  a  Hogan  always  a  Hogan.  They 
used  to  do  clerical  work  for  the  restaurant  in 
return  for  the  "  welcome  home  "  they  got  there. 
The  parties  they  gave  are  unforgotten,  and  they 
are  spoken  of  in  the  places  that  knew  them  with 
reminiscent  smiles. 

We  were  shown  a  number  of  the  champagne 
bottles  emptied  at  the  dinners  of  the  different 
Hogan  groups,  each  bottle  signed  with  all  the 
names,  and  the  date.  They  stand  on  one  of  the 
chimneypiece  shelves,  a  sturdy  group,  but  Billy 
confessed  that  one  of  them,  now  and  again,  mys- 
teriously vanished. 

"  They're  considerable  of  a  souvenir,"  he  said. 

On  one  wall,  high  against  the  ceiling,  hung  a 
scull.  It  was  the  stroke  oar  of  those  that  won 
the  great  boat  race  of  June  19,  1914,  where  only 
the  fraction  of  a  minute  intervened  between  the 
winners  and  losers. 

"  The  Cup,"  we  were  told,  as  we  looked  on  its 
pewter  splendour  and  noble  proportions,  "  is  never 
taken  down  unless  one  of  the  Cup  Men  is  present. 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

And  when  it  is  passed  round  the  table,  it  must 
never  be  set  down  till  empty." 

Among  the  prints  and  photographs  on  the  wall 
we  noted  one  of  a  stern-faced  woman,  in  a  circle 
of  wild  youths — youths  who  seemed  to  have  looked 
on  the  cup  longer  than  was  good  for  them. 

"That,"  said  Billy,  "is  Carrie  Nation.  You 
know  she  visited  Yale,  and  the  boys  had  great 
times  with  her.  She  was  too  busy  looking  at  the 
camera  to  see  what  they  were  doing — and  maybe 
they  doctored  the  negative  a  bit." 

So  there  she  stands,  grim  and  stout,  while 
behind  her  bottles  and  glasses  are  flourished,  and 
at  her  feet  the  heads  of  the  seated  men  droop 
in  attitudes  that  suggest  a  vast  lapse  from  sobriety. 

We  were  even  allowed  to  go  into  the  bar,  a 
small  and  cosy  place,  exquisitely  fitted  up  with 
numerous  shining  instruments  and  glittering 
glasses,  fountains  for  soft  drinks,  and  bottles  that 
held  sterner  stuff.  "  Everything's  close  at  hand," 
as  Billy  expressed  it. 

All  this  is  only  a  part  of  Mory's  and  its  many 

relations  with  the  undergraduate  body.    But  there 

was  more  of  Yale  for  us  to  see,  and  we  departed 

—reluctantly,  as  is  probably  the  habit  of  those 

who  go  there. 

But  before  we  left  Billy  gave  us  the  words 
of  the  Whiffenpoofs'  chorus,  and  here  they  are: 


145 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

THE  WHIFFENPOOF  ANTHEM 

(To  the  tune  of  "Gentlemen  Rankers") 

,To  the  tables  down  at  Mory's,  to  the  place  where  Louis 

dwells. 

To  the  dear  old  Temple  Bar  we  love  so  well, 
Sing  the  Whiffenpoofs  assembled  with  their  glasses  raised 

on  high, 

And  the  magic  of  the  singing  casts  its  spell. 
Yes !  the  magic  of  the  singing  of  the  songs  we  love  so  well 
"  Shall  I  Wasting  "—and  "  Mavourneen,"— and  the  rest 
We  will  serenade  our  Louis  while  life  and  voice  shall  last, 
Then,  we'll  pass,  and  be  forgotten  with  the  rest ; 
We're  poor  little  lambs,  who  have  lost  our  way,  Baa, 

Baa,  Baa, 

Little  black  sheep  who  have  gone  astray,  Baa,  Baa,  Baa, 
Gentlemen  songsters  off  on  a  spree, 
Damned  from  here  to  eternity, 
God  have  mercy  on  such  as  we,  Baa,  Baa,  Baa. 

Something  very  different  indeed  from  Mory's 
is  the  Elizabethan  Club:  it  is  also  as  distinctly  a 
Yale  institution,  and  it  is  unique. 

The  two  have  one  strong  point  of  likeness, 
however.  Both  are  entirely  and  radically  demo- 
cratic. The  Elizabethan  Club  has  a  membership 
composed  of  Faculty,  Graduate  and  Undergrad- 
uate members,  twenty  undergraduates  from  each 
one  of  the  three  upper  classes  of  Yale  College 
or  the  two  upper  classes  of  the  Sheffield  Scientific 
School.  The  Faculty  members  are  never  to 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

exceed  thirty  in  number.  The  officers  of  the 
club  are  chosen  from  the  Faculty  and  the  graduate 
and  undergraduate  members,  while  the  board  of 
governors  has  four  undergraduate  members,  as 
against  six  graduate  and  Faculty.  The  names  of 
the  members  of  the  board  are  set  down  alpha- 
betically, so  that  it  may  easily  happen  that  the 
youngest  undergraduate  may  top  the  list,  except 
of  course  that  the  Chairman,  as  is  always  the  case, 
is  at  the  very  head. 

The  members  meet  on  a  footing  of  perfect 
equality,  and  this  desire  to  promote  good  fellow- 
ship and  social  ties  between  the  Faculty  and  the 
students  was  one  of  the  main  motives  of  the 
foundation  of  the  Elizabethan  Club.  The  founders 
had  no  surety  that  their  plan  would  not  result  in 
failure;  mdeed,  provision  for  turning  over  to  other 
uses  the  various  assets  of  the  club  in  this  case  was 
made.  But  it  has  proved  a  signal  success.  The 
club  is  a  club  in  the  very  best  sense  of  the  word. 
In  its  large  upper  chamber  men  gather  for  chess 
or  checkers,  to  read  and  to  smoke,  to  talk  literary 
shop,  to  plan  the  entertainments  and  lectures  given 
each  year,  and  all  are  simply  members,  each  with 
an  equal  voice. 

There  are  no  dues. 

This  remarkable  fact  removes  the  slightest 
chance  of  favouritism  on  the  basis  of  money.  It 
puts  the  poorest  member  on  precisely  the  same 

-«- 147  -«- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

level  as  the  richest.  He  is  a  member  for  personal 
reasons,  because  he  is  the  sort  of  man  the  other 
members,  when  they  do  their  electing,  want  to 
have  in  the  club.  Although  the  club  is  pre- 
dominately a  literary  organisation,  the  fact  that 
you  are  editor  of  the  Lit.  will  not  make  you  an 
ex-officio  member.  You  may  be  chosen,  or  you 
may  not.  It  is  the  same  with  the  instructors  in 
the  department  of  English. 

"  Our  idea  is  to  bring  together  a  congenial  body 
of  men  from  all  parts  of  the  college,"  Mr.  Keogh, 
librarian  of  the  Elizabethan  Club  as  well  as  of  the 
University  library,  told  us,  as  he  took  us  in  to  see 
the  charming  place.  "  Naturally  men  interested  in 
literature  and  in  books  generally,  and  in  the 
drama,  are  the  men  to  whom  the  club  makes  an 
appeal,  and  the  men  who  are  wanted  here.  But 
there  is  no  notion  of  asking  them  to  be  specialists 
in  literature  or  anything  of  that  sort.  They  need 
only  have  a  feeling  for  literature." 

We  entered  an  oblong  room  panelled  in  wood, 
with  a  long  table  and  a  few  old  Windsor  chairs. 
Fine  engravings  hung  on  the  walls,  most  of  these 
being  rare  and  particularly  good  impressions,  for 
the  club  is  rich  in  these.  It  owns  a  Henry  VIII., 
by  Cornelius  Metsys,  1544,  and  Metsys  made  no 
attempt  to  soften  an  extreme  ugliness  when  he 
made  the  portrait,  judging  by  the  wicked,  heavy 
face  he  shows  us,  and  an  Erasmus  by  Jerome 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

Hopfer,  one  of  the  earliest  engravings  in  exist- 
ence, among  other  treasures. 

But  the  heart  of  the  Elizabethan  Club  was  now 
thrown  open  to  us.  Mr.  Keogh  had  been  mysteri- 
ously engaged  for  a  few  moments  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  and  suddenly  he  swung  back 
the  immense  door  of  a  great  safe,  a  room  in 
itself.  On  the  shelves  of  this  protected  chamber 
stood  or  lay  the  almost  priceless  collection  of  rare 
books  owned  by  the  club. 

A  remarkable  collection  of  Shakespere  quartos 
and  folios,  first  and  second  editions,  and  each  one 
a  splendid  and  beautiful  copy;  a  "Hamlet,"  per- 
fect and  small,  worth  more  than  five  thousand 
dollars.  The  first  edition  of  the  Sonnets,  dated 
1609.  The  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  first  quarto; 
these  were  but  a  few  that  were  laid  in  our  hands 
with  reverence,  as  became  their  age  and  their 
beauty.  Besides  these  there  is  a  first  edition  of 
"Paradise  Lost,"  an  exquisite  thing;  wonderful 
editions  of  Spenser,  and  many  more  of  the  early 
seventeenth  century  authors  in  first  or  second 
editions,  as  well  as  of  rare  sixteenth  century 
volumes.  Other  books  depending  more  on  the 
richness  of  their  binding  than  on  their  age  glow 
with  colour  and  gold  hand-tooling  on  the  shelves. 
And  there  are  some  magnificent  manuscripts  too, 
among  them  an  illuminated  Grant  of  Lands  in 
Ireland  to  Sir  Francis  Annesley,  with  a  miniature 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

of  James  I,  bearing  the  date  of  January  9,  1619. 

The  place  is  a  shrine  to  the  great  gods  of 
literature,  and  Sister  and  I  felt  that  merely 
to  sit  there  with  one  of  its  treasures  in  our  hands 
was  a  priceless  privilege. 

But  time,  as  usual,  would  not  be  denied.  We 
wanted  also  to  see  the  tea-room,  or  at  least  where 
tea  is  served  to  the  members  during  the  college 
season,  a  square,  comfortable  chamber  with  leather 
armchairs  and  broad  tables,  on  which  two  jars 
filled  with  tobacco  wait  for  any  one  who  wants 
to  fill  his  pipe.  They  are  always  kept  full,  like 
a  new  Baucis  pitcher,  by  some  generous  magic. 
In  the  little  entry  between  the  two  rooms  hang, 
on  a  rack,  a  number  of  slender  clay  church- 
wardens, each  with  its  owner's  name  on  the 
bowl. 

In  this  and  another  room  are  several  paintings, 
one  of  the  maiden  queen  whose  name  the  club 
has  honoured,  a  contemporary  portrait  by  Fred- 
erick Zucchero,  another  of  Garrick,  a  charming 
thing,  painted  from  life  in  1772  by  Robert  Edge 
Pine,  and  an  Opie,  a  portrait  of  Charles  Fox, 
also  from  life,  dated  1802.  Perhaps  more  inter- 
esting yet  is  the  large  painting  of  Elihu  Yale 
with  his  son,  who  died  shortly  afterward;  showing 
a  fine  florid  gentleman  in  rich  clothes. 

"  Between  the  Elizabethan  and  Mory's,"  Sister 
confided  to  me,  as  we  bade  the  place  good-bye,  "  I 

-+•  150  -*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

don't  see  that  a  Yale  man  needs  anything.    Why 
bother  with  the  University?  " 

There  is  something  in  the  point  of  view,  even 
if  it  tends  to  exaggeration. 

We  didn't  allow  Mr.  Keogh  to  escape  us  just 
yet,  however,  for  we  wanted  a  look  at  the  great 
library,  and  a  notion  as  to  just  what  a  University 
Library  was. 

'  Yale  is  proud  of  the  fact  that  she  really 
began  as  a  library,"  he  told  us.  "When  it  was 
decided  to  found  a  collegiate  school,  as  the  title 
had  it  then,  the  founders  each  contributed  a 
certain  number  of  books.  Right  there  the  Uni- 
versity began.  For  after  all,  the  nucleus  of  a 
college  is  the  book." 

There  is  hardly  a  building  in  Yale  that  doesn't 
house  books,  and  in  the  Library  itself  there  are 
close  upon  a  million  volumes. 

"A  college  library  differs  from  a  University 
library,  and  the  duties  of  the  librarian  also  vary. 
The  books  used  in  a  college  are  for  the  trans- 
mission of  knowledge.  Most  of  those  in  a  Uni- 
versity are  for  research.  Perhaps  fifty  thousand 
of  the  books  here  are  consulted  by  the  under- 
graduates. The  rest  are  for  the  use  of  graduates 
and  special  students." 

It  was  a  succinct  expression  of  a  fact  we  had 
neither  of  us  realised. 

The  libraries  of  the  Brothers  in  Unity  and  the 
-+-151-*- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

Linonian,  old  societies  of  Yale,  are  now  used 
chiefly  as  a  circulating  library,  and  are  kept  up 
to  date  by  the  constant  accession  of  new  books 
and  the  retirement  of  the  older  ones,  that  go  to 
the  stacks.  This  is  the  fluent  and  modern  part, 
the  fiction  and  lay  books.  There  are  also  fine 
law  and  scientific  and  religious  libraries. 

Books,  books,  it  was  a  world  of  books. 

In  the  librarian's  office  are  the  old  doors 
of  the  house  where  the  Founders  met  at  Bran- 
ford,  Reverend  Samuel  Russell's  house.  Small 
and  battered  by  age  and  more  or  less  hard  usage, 
it  is  difficult  to  realise  that  a  great  University 
issued  from  them,  small  enough  in  the  beginning, 
but  possessing  so  immense  a  vitality  and  capable 
of  filling  a  great  and  increasing  demand  so  nobly. 

Evening  was  coming  as  we  left  the  "building 
and  crossed  the  campus,  that  already  seemed 
homelike  and  familiar  to  us.  We  were  promised 
an  automobile  ride  about  New  Haven  with  a 
trip  to  the  two  Rocks,  and  sunset  from  West 
Rock. 

New  Haven  is  a  city  of  fine  wide  streets  and 
magnificent  elms,  of  houses  set  back  in  lovely 
grounds,  a  place  of  quiet  spaces.  From  the  top 
of  East  Rock,  which  we  reached  along  a  fine  road 
of  wide  sweeps  and  curves,  the  place  looks  a 
great  garden.  On  top  of  the  Rock  there  is  a 
shaft  of  stone  that  is  dedicated  to  the  soldier  dead 

-+152+- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

of  the  city.  We  sat  awhile  at  its  base,  our  eyes 
on  the  two  shining  rivers  and  the  broad  bay  that 
frame  the  pleasant  valley  that  so  long  ago  at- 
tracted John  Davenport  and  Theophilus  Eaton. 

Between  this  Rock  and  the  Green  lies  the  most 
attractive  part  of  the  old  city,  a  number  of  the 
oldest  and  finest  estates  belonging  here,  together 
with  newer  but  beautiful  homes.  The  park  about 
the  Rock,  and  the  avenues  leading  from  one  of 
these  heights  to  the  other,  are  crowded  with  great 
trees.  New  Haven  has  a  passion  for  parks.  She 
puts  them  everywhere,  up  on  the  peaks  and  down 
by  the  water,  and  right  in  the  heart  of  the  town. 

At  West  Rock  we  got  our  look  at  the  Judge's 
Cave  and  a  tumultuous  looking  sunset,  quite  up 
to  par.  Then  back  again  to  the  Green,  with  its 
peaceful  churches  riding  the  centuries  unmoved 
by  the  changes  about  them.  The  bright  movement 
of  college  life  was  stirring  everywhere. 

Old  John  Davenport  had  striven  hard  to  found 
a  college  here  in  this  city  that  he  loved,  then  a 
mere  settlement  on  the  edge  of  a  wilderness.  He 
had  had  to  leave  before  the  first  efforts  began  to 
bear  fruit.  It  was  in  1701  that  the  Collegiate 
School  that  later  became  Yale  was  founded  at 
Saybrook,  and  not  till  1716  that  it  came  to 
New  Haven,  after  some  curious  occurrences,  oc- 
casioned by  the  fact  that  Saybrook  was  decidedly 
anxious  to  hang  on  to  it. 

-+153-?- 


YALE  AND  NEW  HAVEN 

As  we  drove  down  through  the  busy,  clattering 
streets  of  the  lower  city  to  the  station,  for  we 
were  to  go  on  to  Providence  that  night,  the 
crowds  on  the  sidewalks  were  all  tending  upward, 
to  the  Green  and  the  University.  Many  of  them 
probably  never  gave  Yale  a  thought.  Yet,  let 
New  Haven  call  itself  what  it  will,  and  interest 
itself  in  a  thousand  energetic  directions,  the  dream 
of  old  Pastor  Davenport  has  come  true.  It  is 
truly  a  college  town. 


154 


CHAPTER  VI 

Providence  and  Brown  University 

THERE  is  a  story  told  of  a  Chinaman  who  was 
employed  as  a  cook  at  the  station  restaurant  that 
was  the  only  eating  place  at  the  Grand  Canon 
before  the  hotel  was  built  on  the  rim. 

Daily  this  Oriental  observed  quantities  of 
people  disembarking  from  the  arriving  trains, 
eating  a  hasty  meal  and  clambering  out  of  sight 
up  the  trail  that  led  through  the  dust  and  under 
the  scrubby  pifion  pines  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill.  After  a  while  they  came  back,  ate  another 
hasty  meal,  climbed  aboard  the  waiting  train  and 
vanished. 

At  last  he  approached  the  manager  for  whom 
he  worked : 

'  What  for  allee  people  go  top-side  allee  time 
when  get  here? "  he  wanted  to  know. 

"  Haven't  you  ever  gone  up  there,  Hop?  " 

The  Chinaman  shook  his  head. 

"  Me  vellee  busy  man,"  he  replied. 
'Well,  you  go  up,  and  see  for  yourself,"  he 
was  told. 

He  went.  When,  a  long  time  afterwards,  he 
came  back,  there  was  a  wild  look  in  his  eye,  though 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

he  had  nothing  to  say.  But  he  never  missed  a 
chance  to  climb  top-side  after  that,  and  could  be 
seen,  sitting  immovable  on  the  terrific  rim,  when- 
ever the  work  was  slack  enough  to  allow  of  his 
leaving. 

Providence  reminded  me  of  that  story. 

You  could  lead  a  long,  busy  and  entirely  satis- 
factory life  in  Providence  without  ever  guessing 
that  there  was  a  college  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
the  city.  To  be  sure,  you  might  wonder,  while 
shopping  in  Market  Square,  just  what  lay  atop 
of  the  breakneck  hill  up  which  people  and  strug- 
gling horses  scrambled  and  vanished,  but  unless 
you  decided  to  find  out  for  yourself,  Providence 
would  never  be  anything  to  you  but  a  rushing, 
busy,  noisy,  clattering,  crowded  place  of  narrow, 
criss-cross  streets  and  lanes,  jumbled  buildings 
and  the  vision  of  the  State  Capitol  off  behind 
the  railway  station. 

The  station  at  Providence  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  the  New  Haven  affair,  being  a  new 
and  several  million  dollar  building  crowning  a 
green  slope  that  merges  with  the  parked  area 
below,  round  which  are  the  public  buildings  of 
the  city,  or  some  of  them,  combining  to  form  the 
Civic  Centre.  Trolley  cars  come  right  to  the 
entrance  of  the  station,  there  is  a  fine  drive-way, 
flower  beds  in  the  grassy  slope,  and  behind  the 
station  a  well-conducted  river  held  stiffly  within 

•-+•  156  -*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

walls,  and  the  lofty,  white  and  handsome  State 
House,  on  its  own  hillslope. 

We  put  up  at  the  Narragansett,  a  hotel  of 
the  good,  solid  old-fashioned  type  that  fills  you 
with  astonished  wonder  at  the  scorn  of  mere  space 
possessed  by  the  old-time  architect.  The  amount 
that  goes  to  waste  in  hotels  of  the  Narragansett 
type  all  over  this  country,  could  if  converted  into 
acres  and  planted  with  potatoes,  probably  sustain 
a  whole  city-full  of  hungry  war-folk  for  a  year. 
Sister  and  I  felt  that  though  we  might  in  time 
get  to  know  Providence,  we  were  most  unlikely 
ever  to  unravel  the  vasty  halls  and  writing  rooms 
and  parlours  and  observation  suites  of  our  hotel. 
We  were  constantly  coming  out  on  an  unexpected 
balcony  or  finding  a  new  flight  of  majestic  stairs, 
or  stopping  to  gaze  at  another  romantic  picture 
on  a  newly  discovered  extent  of  wall. 

Waste  was  certainly  the  great  American  sin. 
But  we  are  improving.  Our  modern  hotels  are 
really  much  larger  than  the  Narragansett  and 
its  fellows,  but  they  are  too  efficient  to  seem  so. 
Everything  has  its  place  and  stays  in  it,  and 
you  do  not  meet  huge  lost  rooms  unhappily 
wondering  what  they  are  for,  or  vacant  halls 
and  landings  as  big  and  as  useless  as  an  elephant 
in  a  city  backyard.  Yet  there  is  fascination  to 
these  old  hotels ;  they  have  a  foolish  human  quality 
that  appeals — you  think  of  them  in  a  personal 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

way.  You  feel  toward  one  of  them  much  as 
toward  some  big,  fat,  good-natured  friend,  a  trifle 
grandiose  in  gesture,  a  bit  unctuous  in  phrase, 
but  a  comfortable  soul  to  be  with,  never  pressed 
for  time  and  always  with  a  good  story  to  tell. 

"  Maybe  we'd  get  more  of  the  real  heart  of 
Providence  staying  right  here  in  the  hotel,"  I  put 
it  to  Sister,  "  than  in  rambling  about  the  town 
itself?  " 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  see  that  Rock,"  she 
replied.  "And  I  want  to  see  whether  we  can 
remember  anything  of  the  map."  For  we  had 
been  studying  a  Providence  map. 

So  out  we  went.  There  was  a  gallant  breeze 
and  a  fresh  sea-smell,  with  large  round  clouds 
sailing  splendidly  through  the  blue.  The  streets 
were  crowded,  people  fairly  jostling  one  another 
on  the  narrow  sidewalks,  the  cars  in  the  street 
treading  on  each  other's  rails,  traffic  policemen 
waving  a  welcoming  or  a  forbidding  hand  to 
the  jammed  rows  of  automobiles  and  wagons. 
Nearby  there  were  several  skyscrapers,  one  with 
a  turbaned  head  carved  on  it — The  :<  Turk's 
Head,"  a  modern  incarnation  of  a  vanished  bit 
of  history. 

There  are  so  many  corners  and  crossings,  and 
even  the  longer  streets  have  so  confusing  a  way 
of  changing  into  an  alias  on  the  least  provocation 
that  it  has  probably  seemed  an  impossible  task 

-+•158  ••* 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

to  Providence  to  mark  the  whole  puzzle.  You 
can  walk  for  many  a  block  without  seeing  the 
name  of  a  single  street,  and  even  where  they  are 
put  up  it  is  in  small,  dull  letters  in  unexpected 
places.  We  imagined  ourselves  to  be  on  Wey- 
bossett  Street,  but  suddenly  discovered  it  to  be 
Westminster.  The  map — surely  the  map  had  put 
Westminster  Street  in  another  part  of  town  alto- 
gether. We  must  be  going  wrong. 

Any  one  who  has  tried  to  spread  out  a  large 
map  printed  on  very  thin  paper,  in  the  middle 
of  a  crowded  and  windy  pavement,  will  know 
how  anxiously  we  spent  the  next  few  minutes. 
It  gave  us  a  decidedly  conspicuous  feeling, 
and  we  couldn't  find  any  street  at  all  be- 
ginning with  a  W.  So  Sister  asked  the  traffic 
policeman. 

"  He  says  we  are  to  keep  right  on  as  we're 
going  to  get  to  Market  Square,  and  then  turn  a 
little  to  the  left  and  we'll  see  the  old  church, 
and  up  past  that  to  the  University.  But  he 
doesn't  know  anything  about  the  Rock." 

Connected  to  the  map  was  a  small  guidebook 
giving  various  items  of  information,  among  the 
rest  a  list  of  Points  of  Interest.  One  of  these 
Points  was  the  Roger  Williams  Rock.  No  indi- 
cation as  to  the  whereabouts  of  any  Point  or 
the  way  to  reach  it  was  included  in  this  reticent 
communication.  To  be  sure,  the  parks  and  the 

-i-159-*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

college  and  the  hospitals  and  the   station  were 
marked  on  the  map ;  but  not  the  Rock. 

Narragansett  Bay  lays  a  long  seagreen  finger 
right  into  the  heart  of  Providence,  the  tip  touching 
Marget  Square.  This  finger  has  been  called  the 
Providence  River,  and  to  it  the  city  largely  owes 
its  air  of  foreignness  and  quaintness.  You  could 
pass  entire  days  idling  round  the  bridge  and  along 
the  quays,  watching  the  shipping  push  in  and  out; 
the  unloading,  the  heaped  and  coloured  produce 
of  the  markets  that  elbow  each  other,  blinking  out 
under  wooden  shed-roofs,  the  sea  folk  and  trading 
folk,  Italians,  Portugese,  Swedes  and  Yankees. 
A  delectable  fragrance  of  fruit  and  vegetables 
and  tarry  cordage  is  blown  about  the  place  and 
through  the  very  short  and  narrow  lanes  that 
run  up  along  the  northeasterly  bank  of  the  river 
from  Water  Street  to  Main  Street,  which  parallels 
the  tidewater  and  continues  in  a  generally  northly 
direction  (later  adding  North  to  its  title)  for  a 
respectable  distance,  and  without  any  violent  turns 
and  twists.  The  lanes  have  odd  names,  expressing 
the  business  thought  of  the  old  inhabitants,  who 
carried  on  a  great  trade  with  the  Orient,  especially 
India.  There  is  an  India  Street  running  from 
Providence  River  to  Sekonk  River,  a  stream 
emptying  at  the  very  head  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
reminiscent  of  that  time,  and  the  lanes  are  called 
Doubloon,  Pound,  Shilling,  Penny,  Gold,  Silver, 

-+•160-*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

Coin,  Guilder,  Dollar  and  what  not,  with  a 
Patriot  and  a  Power  thrown  in  for  good  measure. 
On  the  other  hand  the  old  residence  streets,  and 
most  of  them  remain  such  to  this  day, — thanks  to 
the  fortunate  physical  structure  of  the  land  on 
which  Providence  is  built, — carry  names  such  as 
Friendship,  Benefit,  Benevolent,  Pleasant,  Meet- 
ing, Mt.  Hope  and  Peace.  But,  as  there  are 
more  streets  in  Providence  than  exist  in  any  other 
city  even  several  times  its  size,  it  is  impossible 
to  more  than  hint  at  the  variety  of  nomenclature. 
Apparently  the  only  omission  is  that  of  numerals. 
So  far  as  we  could  discover  there  was  no  First 
or  Second,  or  anything  higher,  Street  in  all 
Providence. 

Market  Square  does  not  end  with  the  river, 
but  continues  on,  and  we  continued  with  it. 
Presently  we  stopped  before  an  ancient  building 
of  exquisite  proportions,  the  more  noticeable  be- 
cause of  its  entire  simplicity,  the  only  adornments 
being  the  arched  windows  and  entrances  of  the 
ground  floor,  and  the  clock  in  the  front  gable. 
Once  this  was  the  Market  House,  now  the  Board 
of  Trade  houses  there.  We  were  able  to  perceive 
members  of  the  Board  sitting  about  in  the  big 
club  room  reserved  for  their  more  idle  moments. 
It  is  a  bare  and  spacious  chamber,  looking  out  on 
the  crowded  and  busy  square  through  the  fine 
big  windows,  as  the  past  might  be  expected  to 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

observe,  from  its  achieved  peace,  the  rush  of  the 
present. 

A  trifle  farther  along,  just  where  the  square 
ends,  is  Steeple  Street,  that  carries  you  straight 
to  the  First  Baptist  Church,  among  the  most 
perfect  in  all  America.  It  stands  on  a  sharp  rise, 
surrounded  by  a  grassy  plot,  the  street  dividing 
before  it,  the  hill  continuing  to  climb  behind  it. 

This  interesting  church  was  built  in  1774-5  from 
alternate  plans  submitted  by  the  English  archi- 
tect, James  Gibbs,  of  London,  for  St.  Martin's- 
in-the-Fields,  of  that  city.  Joseph  Brown,  one 
of  the  four  Brown  brothers  who  meant  so  much 
to  Providence  in  her  early  days,  as  the  family 
continued  to  mean  much  through  most  of  her 
development,  with  William  Sumner,  were  the 
builders  of  the  First  Baptist.  The  graceful 
Wren  spire,  the  beautiful  fa£ade  and  a  certain 
delicate  strength  and  rhythm  of  line  and  pro- 
portion make  the  church  a  treasure  to  the  eye. 
If  Providence  held  nothing  else  reminiscent  of  the 
past  this  church  alone  would  be  reason  for  pride 
and  joy.  It  is  closely  allied  to  the  University, 
the  exercises  at  every  Commencement  but  two 
since  1776  having  been  held  there.  Besides  this 
church  there  are  many  splendid  examples  of  those 
Colonial  and  early  nineteenth  century  buildings 
that  have  never  been  surpassed  as  examples  of  a 
beautiful  architectural  accomplishment. 

-J-162-*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

The  Old  State  House,  erected  in  1763,  is  an- 
other case  in  point.  Built  of  brick,  with  a  white 
stone  clock  tower  rising  from  the  square  central 
projection  of  the  second  story  and  the  entrance 
porch,  with  its  brick  pilasters,  the  building  gives 
you  a  feeling  of  noble  adequacy.  Several  great 
elms  and  a  lawn  with  a  flagged  path  leading  to- 
ward the  flight  of  steps  that  flow  outward  in  a  fine 
sweep,  guarded  by  an  iron  railing  that  has  its 
own  note  of  elegance,  add  to  the  effect.  Provi- 
dence is  generous  in  its  parks  and  gardens  and 
lawns,  preferring  elbow-room  everywhere  but  in 
its  business  streets,  which  are  often  so  narrow 
that  it  must  be  difficult  for  two  carts  to  pass 
each  other — many  are  one  way  streets  through 
sheer  necessity. 

To  be  sure,  in  speaking  of  Providence,  it  is 
necessary  to  remember  that  it  is  really  two  distinct 
cities,  the  lower  stratum  of  intense  activity  and 
crowded  life,  flat  down  by  the  river  and  stretching 
away  to  the  south  and  east  till  it  reaches  the 
spacious  environs  and  parks  of  its  later  life,  and 
the  upper  stratum,  above  the  sharp  declivity  left 
by  ancient,  gnawing  glaciers  on  their  way  to  the 
sea,  where  the  old  and  new  homes,  the  serene, 
tree-shaded  streets,  gracious  walled  gardens  and 
the  charming  old  University,  create  and  maintain 
an  atmosphere  of  calm  seclusion,  untouched  by 
and  unaware  of  the  turmoil  at  its  feet.  Walking 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

along  Prospect  or  Benefit  Streets,  at  the  edge  of 
the  escarpment,  you  can  look  down  at  working 
Providence,  and  away  to  the  river  and  the  bay, 
and  from  the  streets  and  squares,  as  you  dodge 
trolley  and  motor-car,  you  may  gaze  upward  at 
the  serene  heights;  but  the  two  do  not  mingle. 
All  but  a  few  of  the  cars  find  their  way  through 
a  long  tunnel  under  the  hills  of  homes  and  learn- 
ing, to  emerge  on  their  way  to  Pawtucket,  passing 
unseen  and  unheard.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of 
a  better  arrangement.  Yet  rarely  are  a  city  and 
a  college  more  closely  united  than  Brown  and 
Providence.  This  we  discovered  later. 

New  Haven  and  Providence  are  remarkably 
dissimilar;  dissimilar  as  the  impulses  behind  their 
foundation.  New  Haven  was  long  famous  for 
the  extreme  blueness  of  its  laws,  the  leading  idea 
of  the  group  of  men  who  founded  the  colony 
being  conformity — conformity  to  things  as  they 
saw  them,  to  their  conception  of  religion  and  of 
personal  behaviour.  The  town  was  planned  and 
laid  out  according  to  rule,  and  those  who  lived 
in  it  were  supposed  to  take  life  straitly.  The 
church  and  the  state  were  closely  united,  the 
public  officers  being  almost  always  ministers  of 
the  church.  When  Yale  was  founded  the  chief 
thought  was  the  training  of  pastors — "  to  supply 
the  churches  in  this  colony  with  a  learned,  pious 
and  orthodox  ministry,"  although  the  first  charter 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

also  states  that  the  aim  was  to  establish  a  school 
where  the  scholars  might  be  fitted  "  for  public 
employment,  both  in  church  and  civil  state."  But 
there  was  constant  insistence  on  the  students' 
orthodoxy,  rules  for  every  moment  of  their  day, 
requirements  that  they  shall  "  Constantly  attend 
upon  all  the  Duties  of  Religion  both  in  Publick 
and  Secret,"  and  that,  should  any  one  be  guilty 
of  heresy  and  continue  obstinate  therein  he  should 
be  expelled. 

But  the  town  of  Roger  Williams  was  founded 
as  a  refuge  for  any  and  all  who  preferred  to  think 
for  themselves,  and  to  worship  God  after  their 
own  fashion.  It  was  the  free  spirit  of  man  that 
was  enshrined  here. 

I  told  this  to  Sister,  as  we  sat  on  a  species 
of  balcony  projecting  from  Prospect  Street,  with 
a  view  of  the  tangled  streets  below. 

"  He  was  left  free  to  put  his  house  where 
he  chose  and  make  his  own  road  to  it  too,  I 
imagine.  No  one  makes  a  straight  road  unless 
under  compulsion.  Here  they  evidently  crowded 
their  buildings  in  every-which-way,  as  suited  their 
whim,  and  would  zig-zag  about  on  all  sorts  of 
errands,  stopping  here  for  a  chat  and  there  to 
leave  a  message,  and  then  as  likely  as  not  turn 
back  for  something  they'd  forgotten,  and  grad- 
ually these  meanderings  turned  into  streets,  and 
there  they  are! " 

-+-165-*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

It  seems  the  best  explanation  for  the  general 
ground-plan  of  Providence. 

The  new  State  House  looms  up  nobly  from 
such  a  vantage  point  as  that  where  we  sat. 
It  looks  much  like  other  modern  buildings  in- 
tended for  the  same  purposes,  with  pillars  and 
wings  and  a  great  dome,  but  this  dome  happens 
to  be  one  of  the  few  in  the  world  that  is  con- 
structed of  marble.  When  time  has  merged  it 
more  with  the  landscape,  grown  some  trees  about 
it  and  softened  its  present  rather  harsh  newness, 
there  will  be  few  lovelier  sights  in  the  country. 

But  there  was  more  interesting  stuff  at  hand 
than  a  new  marble  dome.  We  had  been  promised 
a  personally  conducted  tour  about  the  University, 
the  "  College  under  the  elms,"  as  its  sons  like 
to  call  it,  and  even  as  we  still  sat  looking  down 
at  the  fascinating  confusion  of  Providence  the 
tolling  of  a  bell  from  the  belfry  of  University 
Hall,  the  first  of  the  college  buildings,  warned 
us  to  be  up  and  doing. 

Colleges  have  a  happy  faculty  for  finding 
advantageous  localities.  Those  we  had  been  see- 
ing had  each  proved  the  fact;  but  among  them 
all,  Brown  seems  to  have  done  itself  proudest. 

How  could  there  be  a  finer  spot  than  this 
plateau,  for  such  it  is,  with  its  views  far  and 
away  across  the  lovely  countryside  and  the  blue 
waters,  the  town  at  its  feet,  the  wonderful  effect 

-*•  166  •+-. 


In    the   Same   Row    With    University   Hall   is 
Manning  with  its  Doric  Columns 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

of  isolation  with  the  actuality  of  closest  contact 
with  the  city?  Up  here  the  streets  are  calm, 
shaded,  lost  in  a  delightful  sense  of  leisure.  No 
city  in  New  England  retains  more  of  its  beautiful 
Colonial  homes,  surrounded  by  gracious  embracing 
gardens,  and  these  again  by  brick  walls  that  have 
been  carefully  considered  in  their  relation  to  the 
beauty  of  the  whole.  Providence,  on  these  sweet 
levels,  combines  warmth  and  dignity,  a  delicate 
reserve  with  a  welcoming  hospitality  that  reaches 
to  you  even  as  you  walk  along  its  quiet  streets, 
so  spotlessly  in  order,  so  devoted  on  either  hand 
to  blossoms  and  green  leaves. 

We  walked  up  College  Street  to  the  corner 
where,  facing  on  the  University  grounds,  stands 
the  John  Hay  Library,  admitted  to  be,  even 
away  from  Providence,  one  of  the  most  perfectly 
planned  and  beautiful  of  college  libraries.  Out- 
side the  building  strikes  the  Greek  note  that  has 
always  marked  Brown,  for  one  of  her  oldest 
buildings,  standing  in  the  Brick  Row  that  faces 
the  front  campus,  Manning  Hall,  named  after 
the  first  President,  is  Doric.  The  John  Hay,  of 
white  stone,  with  a  stately  facade,  gives  a  great 
impression  of  spaciousness  and  airiness  that  is 
confirmed  when  you  enter.  On  the  second  floor 
there  is  a  wide  window  overlooking  the  University, 
and  here  we  met  our  f rie&df  primed  with  infor- 
mation and  enthusiasm;  we  already  shared  the 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

enthusiasm,  and  fully  intended  to  get  the  infor- 
mation also. 

"  Come  along  and  take  a  look  at  the  room  the 
students  use  for  reading  and  study.  It's  the 
most  used  room  of  any  in  the  University." 

There  is  no  nonsense  about  that  room,  with  its 
sensible  tables  and  chairs,  its  splendid  lighting, 
the  convenient  bookcases  open  to  every  one.  A 
number  of  students,  both  young  men  and  young 
women,  were  sitting  at  work  or  studying  the 
shelves  for  some  desired  volume. 

:<  The  Woman's  College  is  entirely  separated 
from  us,"  our  Senior  told  us.  '  They  have  their 
own  campus  and  buildings  and  gymnasium— 
Sayles  Gym.  They  get  all  the  college  courses 
— same  Faculty,  same  work  for  degrees,  same 
exams  and  diplomas — but  the  student  life  of  the 
two  is  absolutely  apart." 

The  Woman's  College  was  established  in  1891, 
after  some  years  of  debate  on  the  advisability  of 
such  a  step,  and  was  a  success  from  the  first, 
though  accommodations  were  rough  and  simple 
for  a  few  years.  Now,  inside  its  fenced-in 
campus,  the  college  makes  a  handsome  addition 
to  the  rest  of  the  University.  The  buildings, 
Miller  Hall,  Pembroke  and  the  Sayles  Gym- 
nasium, are  of  an  agreeable  simplicity,  with  vines 
clambering  up  the  well-proportioned  walls,  great 
trees  guarding  them,  and  always  that  effect  of 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

somewhat  dreaming  retirement  from  all  noise  and 
confusion  that  sets  its  impression  on  Brown. 

We  now  crossed  the  street  from  the  Library 
to  the  Van  Wickle  Gates,  which  nobly  usher  you 
into  the  famous  old  front  campus.  And  here 
we  stopped  to  take  in  the  fine  row  of  buildings 
that  separates  this  from  the  middle  campus. 

University  Hall,  brick  built  and  vine  covered, 
was  modelled  on  the  beloved  Nassau  of  Princeton, 
though  it  lacks  the  high  belfry  of  that  old  Hall. 
It  was  built  in  1771,  and  has  been  repaired  and  re- 
modelled in  1880  with  the  greatest  success.  Brown 
has  been  peculiarly  fortunate  in  retaining  all  her 
first  buildings.  In  the  same  row  with  University 
—Old  U.  H.,  the  Senior  called  it,  affection  in  his 
voice — are  Hope  College,  the  second  building 
erected,  in  the  same  general  style  as  University, 
Manning,  the  third,  with  splendid  pillars  sup- 
porting the  pediment,  Rhode  Island  Hall  and 
Slater  Hall.  The  John  Carter  Brown  Library 
repeats  in  a  different  style  the  Greek  conception 
which  inspires  Manning.  This  mingling  of 
Georgian,  Colonial  and  Greek  architecture  turns 
out  to  be  most  happy.  The  row  has  a  distinction 
impossible  to  convey  in  words,  the  composed 
facades  of  the  dominating  brick  buildings  gaining 
by  the  rich  contrast  of  the  age-toned  columns  and 
balanced  harmony  of  their  temple-like  comrades. 

Hope  and  Slater  are  dormitories,   as  is  Uni- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

versity,  though  the  latter  is  also  provided  with 
recitation  halls  and  houses  the  Department  of 
English.  Manning  is  used  for  lectures,  holds  the 
museum  of  art,  and  enshrines  the  tablet  to  those 
sons  of  Brown  who  fell  for  their  country. 

The  John  Carter  Brown  Library  contains  the 
best  and  completest  collection  of  Americana  in 
the  country. 

"  It  would  take  months  just  to  look  at  the 
outside  of  all  they've  got,"  said  the  Senior. 
"Naturally  it's  used  more  by  specialists  than  by 
the  students  as  a  general  thing.  But  it  is  mighty 
important  on  Class  Day,  for  the  Senior  Sing  is 
given  on  its  steps.  I  tell  you  what,  when  it  comes 
to  hearing  '  Alma  Mater,'  which  is  the  last  thing 
they  give,  while  the  whole  college  is  grouped  about 
on  the  grass  under  the  trees,  you  feel  pretty 
stirred  up.  Brown  has  the  best  song  book  of  any 
college  in  the  country;  we're  strong  on  music. 
And  Brown  is  famous  for  its  processions,  too. 
They've  called  us  the  c  paradingest '  of  colleges. 
Why,  nothing  much  can  happen  without  the 
classes,  from  the  Freshies  up,  holding  a  parade, 
with  red  fire  and  costumes  and  all  the  trimmings. 
Always  march  right  down  the  hill  and  through  the 
business  streets,  just  to  let  the  town  know  some- 
thing's doing  here." 

In  one  corner  of  the  front  campus  stands  the 
Carrie  Tower,  given  to  the  University  by  Paul 

-+  170  -f- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

Bajnotti,  of  Turin,  Italy,  in  memory  of  his  wife, 
Carrie  Mathilde  Brown,  one  of  the  great  Brown 
family  that  has  meant  so  much  both  to  Providence 
and  the  University  that  carries  its  name.  Built 
of  brick  with  stone  enrichment  and  a  belfry  and 
clock,  which  strikes  the  hours  on  a  sonorous  bell. 

We  noticed  that  several  students  who  passed 
us  wore  small,  very  tight  skull  caps,  brown  with 
a  white  button  on  top.  Naturally  we  wanted 
to  know  why,  and  were  told  that  the  Freshmen 
were  obliged  to  wear  this  mark  of  their  class  until 
May  29.  On  the  night  of  that  day,  the  eve  of 
Memorial  Day,  they  destroy  them  effectually  in 
a  huge  bonfire  built  for  the  purpose  on  Lincoln 
Field. 

Behind  Brick  Row  is  the  middle  campus,  and 
here  is  the  Rockefeller  Building,  a  fine,  plain 
structure,  the  home  of  Brown  Union. 

Brown  is  devoted  to  the  Greek  Letter  Societies 
that  have  so  divided  University  opinion  through- 
out the  country. 

At  least  twenty  of  the  national  societies  are 
represented  at  Brown,  and  have  the  Faculty 
support.  In  the  rooms  of  the  frat.  houses  many 
of  the  students  live — all  that  are  not  housed  in 
the  various  dormitories,  and  eighty  per  cent  of 
the  students  belong  to  one  or  other  of  them. 

"  Of  course  competition  is  keen  among  the 
different  frats.,"  said  our  informant.  "  They  tell 

-M71-f- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

us  that  our  system  is  the  best  there  is,  and  that 
there  is  less  of  the  objectional  side  to  the  secret 
societies  here  than  elsewhere.  They  certainly  are 
prime  favourites  with  the  men  and  help  make 
undergraduate  life  at  old  Brown  a  highly  inter- 
esting experience.  Perhaps  our  Union  keeps  them 
from  making  snobs  of  the  members." 

"  Well,  just  what  is  you  Union?  " 

"  Rockefeller  Hall  is  a  great  club  where  every 
student  who  pays  the  nominal  fee  of  four  dollars 
a  year  is  at  home.  The  rooms  are  charming,  great 
comfortable  leather  backed  chairs,  nooks  and 
corners,  books,  magazines  and  papers,  everything 
looked  for  in  a  comfortable  and  attractive  club. 

"  Here  is  the  centre  of  most  of  the  University 
activities.  The  editors  of  the  Brown  Daily 
Herald,  of  the  Brown  Magazine,  and  of  the  Brun- 
sonian  meet  to  carry  on  their  business  in  three 
of  the  rooms.  Here  the  various  athletic  asso- 
ciations manage  their  affairs.  And  the  Sock  and 
Buskin,  Brown's  great  dramatic  club,  is  another 
centre  of  interest  for  the  members  of  Union.  This 
club  gives  frequent  performances  in  public,  at 
least  eight  or  ten  a  year,  and  there  is  intense 
rivalry  to  '  get  aboard.'  But  only  true  talent 
will  make  you  an  actor  at  Brown! " 

Other  clubs  besides  the  fraternities  have  great 
importance  in  the  University.  There  is  the 
literary  club,  called  the  Wastebasket,  to  which 

-M72-J- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

men  interested  in  literature  naturally  gravitate. 
Members  include  undergraduates,  graduates  and 
certain  of  the  Faculty,  and  they  are  recruited 
through  invitation.  Then  there  is  the  Cammarian 
Club,  consisting  of  twelve  Seniors,  whose  new 
members  are  announced  after  the  last  Chapel 
service  by  the  Tapping  Ceremony.  This  club 
manages  most  undergraduate  business  in  relation 
to  its  intercourse  with  the  Faculty,  and  men  of 
the  highest  grade  only  are  able  to  make  it.  It 
is  probably  the  most  coveted  of  any  in  the 
University. 

"  The  minute  college  opens,  and  when  the 
'  rushes  '  between  the  two  lower  classes  are  on, 
the  upperclassmen  begin  to  root  for  their  special 
frats.  and  clubs.  This  is  an  interesting  thing  to 
see,  and  it  makes  it  nice  for  the  lower  class  men, 
who  feel  that  they  are  really  wanted  as  part  of 
the  college  life.  Rushing  for  the  frats.  brings 
out  all  a  man's  social  qualities.  The  rushes  be- 
tween the  Sophs  and  Freshmen  gets  their  physical 
side  developed." 

Brown  keeps  thoroughly  democratic,  and  the 
Union  is  the  heart  of  this  democracy.  Without  it 
the  frats.  might  be  harmful,  but  it  is  too  big 
and  vital  a  part  of  the  University  to  fear  any 
competition. 

'  You  ought  to  see  this  campus  on  Class  Day," 
said  the  Senior,  after  explaining  these  club  affairs 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

briefly.     "  In  the  evening  the  lanterns  are  strung 
here  in  thousands,  meeting  right  in  the   centre, 
and  high  over  the  heads  of  the  crowds.     Round 
about  are  the  different  stands  of  the  fraternities, 
decorated   with   flowers,    and    in   the   houses   the 
spreads  and  dances  are  going  on.     Everywhere 
there  is  music.     It  is  a  wonderful  sight.     The 
thing  is  all  so  centralised,  so  full  of  motion  and 
light    and    colour.      And    then,    suddenly,    at    a 
quarter  to  twelve,  everything  stops — biff!    Every- 
body gets  back  from  the  centre  and  there,  under 
the  meeting  strings  of  lanterns,  swaying  in  the 
wind,  the  Seniors  gather  for  their  last  student 
parade  and  banquet.    As  the  clock  tolls  midnight 
they  start  off  down  the  hill,  red  fire  blazing  and 
a  band  at  their  head — and  the  celebration  is  over." 
He  told  us  much  more.     The  events  of  Com- 
mencement, the  meeting  before  Manning  Hall  on 
the  middle  campus  of  the  alumni  and  guests  of 
honour  in  cap  and  gown,  and  of  the  march  down 
the   hill   to   the   old   Baptist    Church,   where   the 
degrees   are   conferred.      Of   the   luncheon   later 
served  out   on  Lincoln  Field,   that   lies   directly 
below  middle  campus,  commanded  by  a  superb 
mounted  statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius.     It  was  at 
the  base  of  this  statue  that  we  sat  while  he  tried 
to  reconstruct  the  picture  for  us.     The  field  is 
the  centre  of  the  baseball  activity  of  Brown,  which 
is  confined  to  interclass  games,  from  motives  of 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

economy.  Here  it  is  that  the  great  bonfires  are 
built  by  which  the  various  classes  celebrate  certain 
occasions  and  events  of  the  college  year.  While 
the  alumni  sit  on  the  field,  under  gay  tents  and 
at  decorated  tables,  the  band  plays  on  the  middle 
campus,  and  in  Manning  Hall  the  alumnae  are 
having  their  luncheon.  The  class  hymn  is  sung 
on  this  campus,  which  is  the  centre  of  the  Class 
Day  and  Commencement  exercises,  the  point  of 
departure  from  and  arrival  of  the  various  pro- 
cessions and  the  place  where  any  special  cele- 
bration is  held. 

"  The  Woman's  College  usually  gives  a  pageant 
on  its  own  campus,  and  last  year's  Shakespere 
Pageant  was  a  great  sight.  Of  course  this  year, 
on  account  of  the  war,  the  whole  thing  will  be 
different.  You  know  Brown  has  had  military 
drill  since  1892  under  U.  S.  A.  men.  This  year 
so  many  of  the  men  will  be  scattered  among  the 
different  camps  that  it  will  be  more  like  a  soldiers' 
reunion  when  they  come  here  for  their  degrees, 
and  most  of  the  old  practices  will  go  by  the  board. 
Many  have  entered  the  Navy  in  one  way  or 
another,  and  probably  can't  get  back  at  all.  In 
a  University  where  there  aren't  more  than  about 
a  thousand  students  all  told  that  makes  a  big 
difference." 

It  was  the  same  story  whose  different  chapters 
we  had  been  following  from  one  college  to  another. 

-j-175-i- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

Sayles  Hall  is  the  college  Chapel,  a  Roman- 
esque plan  having  been  followed  in  building  it 
that  is  effective  in  itself,  though  failing  to 
harmonise  with  the  general  idea  that  commands 
Brown.  It  was  given  in  memorial  of  young 
Sayles,  who  died  before  graduation,  by  his  father. 
It  is  also  made  use  of  for  lectures  and  recita- 
tions, and  the  orations  incident  to  graduation. 
Attendance  is  not  compulsory,  since  many  faiths 
were  admitted  from  the  first  to  broadminded 
Brown.  As  far  back  as  its  removal  from  Warren 
to  Providence,  in  1770,  chiefly  through  the  in- 
fluence and  exertions  of  the  four  Brown  brothers, 
the  college  voted  to  throw  its  doors  open  to  Jews, 
then  an  unheard  of  liberality. 

Down  on  Lincoln  Field  a  couple  of  the  class 
teams  were  practising  baseball  with  splendid 
energy,  and  the  three  of  us  had  stopped  there, 
at  the  feet  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  to  watch  them. 
This  is  not  the  only  Athletic  Field,  nor  the  most 
important;  Andrews  Field,  on  Camp  Street,  a 
mile  away,  has  the  cinder  track,  the  football 
grounds,  the  Field  House  thoroughly  fitted  out 
with  showers,  lockers  and  the  paraphernalia  inci- 
dent to  physical  well  being  after  violent  exercise. 
On  this  field  the  Commencement  baseball  game  is 
played.  Then  there  is  the  Lyman  Gymnasium 
and  the  Colgate  Hoyt  swimming  pool  and  house, 
one  of  the  best  to  be  found  in  America.  Swim- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

ming  is  in  great  favour  at  Brown,  Brown  men 
getting  more  into  the  habit  every  season  of 
sweeping  up  the  prizes  at  intercollegiate  meets. 

"  The  point  is  that  practically  every  man  at 
Brown  goes  in  for  one  form  or  another  of 
athletics,"  we  were  informed.  "  For  the  first  two 
years  here  gymnasium  work  is  obligatory  and  by 
that  time  you've  got  the  habit." 

Like  other  colleges  Brown  has  its  peculiar 
institutions  and  rules.  Of  course  the  Freshmen 
are  those  most  affected  by  underclass  customs. 
For  instance  no  Freshman  may  walk  on  the  south 
side  of  College  Hill  until  his  class  has  won  a  base- 
ball game  from  the  Sophomores.  Also  he  has 
that  pesky  cap  to  wear  on  every  day  but  Sunday. 
Until  the  Junior  Week  of  his  Class  he  is  not 
allowed  to  put  a  silk  hat  on  his  head  even  of  a 
Sunday.  No  Freshman  may  smoke  on  the 
campus  or  on  Andrews  Field. 

'  You've  got  to  keep  your  eye  on  a  Freshman," 
remarked  the  Senior  gravely.  "  Some  of  the  old 
boys,  when  they  come  back  here,  shake  their  heads 
over  us,  and  say  that  we  don't  keep  up  the  old 
customs  with  the  right  spirit;  that  the  rushes  are 
mild  affairs  compared  to  what  they  were  in  their 
day.  But  that's  just  their  class  loyalty,  and  we 
only  grin — it  shows  the  right  spirit." 

"  I  suppose  a  mashed  Freshman  is  an  un- 
answerable proof  that  the  old  college  is  still  thor- 

-»- 177  -*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

oughly  alive? "  It  was  Sister  who  wanted  to 
know. 

"  Nobody  gets  hurt — that  sort  of  thing  never 
was  popular  at  Brown.  But  there's  plenty  of 
pep  in  the  brushes  between  the  classes." 

"Any  more  rules?" 

'  Well,  no  one  but  a  Senior  can  sit  on  the  seats 
by  the  Van  Wickle  Gates,  nor  on  the  east  steps 
of  Manning  or  the  east  steps  of  Middle  Univer- 
sity. But  on  the  whole  we're  pretty  easy-going." 

We  laughed. 

"  Spring  Day,  soon  after  the  Easter  holidays, 
is  quite  a  celebration  here,"  went  on  our  invaluable 
informant.  "  That's  the  day  the  Seniors  put  on 
the  cap  and  gown  for  the  first  time,  and  adopt 
a  Class  mascot.  Pretty  queer  the  things  they 
get  for  mascots,  too.  Then  there's  Junior  Week 
Carnival,  lasting  three  days,  and  a  good  time 
had  by  all  every  minute,  a  regular  circus  with 
all  sorts  of  stunts,  and  at  the  end  a  farce  given 
by  the  Sock  and  Buskin  and  produced  by  Phi 
Kappa. 

"  On  May  29  all  the  classes  go  out  for  a  big 
time.  The  Seniors  hold  a  clambake  somewhere 
round  in  the  environs  of  Providence.  The  Sophs 
have  a  banquet.  The  big  thing  of  the  day,  how- 
ever, is  the  Junior  Cruise.  The  Class  charters  a 
sailing  or  power  boat  and  sails  off  to  a  place 
already  chosen  to  eat  a  Rhode  Island  shore  dinner 

-+178+- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

—I  guess  that  cruise  and  that  dinner  is  one  of 
the  things  no  Brown  man  ever  forgets!  But 
the  Freshmen  are  having  their  own  little  cele- 
bration too.  They  call  it  the  Freshman  Cap. 
One  of  the  biggest  parades  of  the  year,  with  all 
the  trimmings,  trumpets  blowing,  torches,  red  fire. 
Then  they  come  back  to  the  campus  and  march 
down  on  Lincoln  Field  where  they've  built  a 
great  bonfire,  set  it  off,  and  burn  their  caps." 

One  of  Brown's  original  celebrations  is  what 
is  called  Sub-Freshman  Day,  and  is  an  invitation 
affair.  The  guests  are  collected  from  preparatory 
and  high  schools  and  entertained  by  Brown  men, 
with  the  idea  of  showing  them  how  much  better 
it  is  to  come  to  Brown  than  to  go  anywhere 
else.  There  is  a  ball  game  on  Andrews  Field 
and  a  banquet  to  wind  up  the  day.  Many  a 
recruit  is  won  to  the  University  on  that  occasion. 

But  it  is  when  the  Brown  bear  has  made  a  kill, 
and  the  Brown  and  White  are  brought  back  from 
the  football  field  in  triumph  that  the  college  turns 
out  in  force,  and  lets  the  city  know  all  about  it. 
The  Freshmen  in  relays  keep  the  bell  in  Univer- 
sity tolling  steadily.  Then  there  is  a  wild  parade 
when  anything  as  to  costume  goes,  but  costume 
there  must  be.  Maybe  it  looks  singularly  like 
lingerie,  perhaps  it  is  a  brand  new  suit  of  pyjamas 
or  some  ancient  and  very  holey  garment  that  an 
old  clothes  man  would  discard  in  despair.  Never 

-j-179-*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

mind,  on  with  it,  and  off  to  the  parade.  Down 
into  the  business  streets,  with  frequent  pauses  for 
cheers,  or  the  better  development  of  the  marvel- 
lous snake  dance,  an  impromptu  of  wondrous 
steps  and  contortions.  Finally  back  again  and  to 
a  great  bonfire  on  Lincoln  Field.  .  .  . 

''  You  ought  to  see  'em  dancing  round  that, 
with  their  shadows  streaming  out — wildest  sight 
you  ever  saw.  Dance  till  they  are  done  for.  Then 
every  one  sits  round  on  the  grass  except  the 
orators,  who  follow  each  other,  and  pour  out  the 
greatest  lot  of  stuff — bonfire  orations.  Last  of 
all  we  sing  Alma  Mater." 

We  had  to  say  good-bye  now,  for  even  a  Senior 
had  certain  calls  upon  his  time,  and  U.  H.  was 
tolling  for  a  lecture  that  ours  needed  to  attend. 
He  swung  away,  glancing  at  the  clock,  and  we 
sauntered  after  him,  loath  to  quit  the  fine  old 
campus,  smiling  at  the  visions  of  youthful  energy 
and  high  spirits  the  boy's  talk  had  given  us.  We 
walked  past  the  Woman's  College  for  another 
look  at  it,  wishing  we  could  remain  to  see  the 
lovely  Ivy  Exercises  of  Commencement  held  at 
Sayles  Gymnasium,  and  see  the  procession  of  the 
women  in  cap  and  gown  winding  under  the  trees. 

It  would  not  do  to  omit  a  mention  of  the 
Rhode  Island  School  of  Design,  affiliated  with 
the  University,  and  occupying  a  beautiful  building 

close  to  the  Baptist   Church,  for  it  is  doing  a 

.+.  180  -*- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

magnificent  work.  But  to  exhaust  the  possibili- 
ties of  Brown  would  have  taken  Sister  and  me 
a  longer  time  than  we  had  to  give.  We  had  our 
impression — of  a  serene  group  of  fine  buildings 
under  their  elms,  of  a  body  of  undergraduates  full 
of  enthusiasm  and  up  to  many  pranks,  of  a  fine 
equipment  both  on  the  academical  and  the  scien- 
tific side,  for  from  its  founding  Brown  was 
pledged  that  its  "  public  teaching  shall  respect 
the  sciences,"  and  there  are  excellent  provisions 
for  this  purpose  in  several  modern  buildings  be- 
longing to  the  University. 

We  could  not  linger  among  the  streets  on  the 
hill,  seeing  the  ancient  and  noble  houses,  as  we 
wanted  to.  Hardly  one  but  has  its  bit  of  history, 
its  title  to  distinction. 

And  the  Rock? 

We  did  get  to  the  Rock,  the  What  Cheer  Rock 
that  gives  to  Providence  its  motto.  On  the 
Sekonk  River,  not  a  far  stroll  from  the  Univer- 
sity grounds,  is  the  fragment  of  blue  slate,  pro- 
tected by  an  iron  railing,  on  which,  so  tradition 
says,  Roger  Williams  first  landed,  being  greeted 
by  a  group  of  friendly  Indians,  who  called  out  to 
him,  as  he  came  up  the  stream  in  his  boat,  "  What 
Cheer,  Netop?"  Later  they  deeded  to  him  a 
large  part  of  the  land  on  which  Providence  now 
stands,  and  were  always  his  good  friends.  Nor 
did  they  have  to  regret  this  friendship,  as  was 

-*- 181  •+- 


PROVIDENCE  AND  BROWN  UNIVERSITY 

unfortunately  so  often  the  case  with  the  red  man 
in  his  contact  with  the  white  one. 

"  But  you  must  come  back.  There  is  Roger 
Williams  Park  to  see,  for  one  thing — and  the 
Stuart  portrait  of  Washington  in  the  new  State 
House " 

And  a  great  deal  more.  But  our  emphasis 
this  time  was  on  the  colleges,  and  we  were  due 
to  get  to  Harvard  that  evening. 


182  -*~ 


CHAPTER  VII 

Harvard  and  Cambridge 

GETTING  to  Cambridge  was  like  getting  home. 
The  years  run  along,  and  doubtless  the  old  town 
changes  tremendously.  But  it  keeps  its  quality 
and  its  effect  upon  you.  You  don't  note  its 
strangeness  so  much  as  recognise  its  familiarity. 
Those  brick-paved  sidewalks  under  the  blooming 
limes,  murmurous  with  a  myriad  bees; — the  sound 
of  their  humming  always  brings  Cambridge  to 
my  mind,  a  Cambridge  sweet  with  that  fine,  clear 
perfume  of  linden  flowers,  a  Cambridge  of  old 
houses  and  gardens  and  girls  in  white,  leisurely 
and  homelike. 

Longfellow  and  Lowell  belong  to  this  old  place. 
They  did  not  merely  live  in  it.  They  are  part  of 
its  spiritual  and  physical  makeup,  and  to  go  to 
Cambridge  without  renewing  your  acquaintance 
with  the  houses  where  they  lived  would  be  to  lose 
an  essential  part  of  what  Cambridge  is. 

It  is  a  joy  to  see  how  tactfully  the  city  has 
treated  these  relics  of  its  ever-present  past.  The 
street,  Brattle,  where  the  Longfellow  house 
stands,  is  beautiful  and  green  with  the  shadow 
of  trees.  Many  new  houses  have  come  to  share 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

the  poet's  neighbourhood,  but  these  do  not  look 
new;  they  have  been  built  with  a  predominating 
sense  of  fitness,  and  they  harmonise  with  their 
elder  brothers.  Then  there  has  been  a  touch  of 
genius  in  the  placing  of  the  little  park  opposite 
the  house,  with  its  bust  of  the  fine  old  man, 
and  the  decorative  figures  that  accompany  it. 

The  kindly,  gracious  house,  on  its  slight  rise, 
well  back  from  the  street,  fulfils  your  desire  for 
the  house  of  a  poet  like  Longfellow;  it  is  like 
one  of  his  own  poems,  friendly,  sincere,  nobly  built 
and  enduring. 

From  Longfellow's  Sister  and  I  walked  to 
Lowell's  house,  Elmwood,  more  stately  within  its 
encircling  lawn  and  behind  its  great  trees.  How 
many  times  we  had  heard  stories  of  our  father's 
evenings  there,  in  long  talks  with  that  keen  and 
gracious  mind,  before  the  cheery  snappings  of  a 
hickory  fire.  How  kind  both  men  had  been  to 
the  undergraduate,  so  recently  fatherless — yes, 
right  there,  up  that  straight  white  path,  in  the 
room  to  the  left,  Lowell  had  read  German  to 
young  Hawthorne,  and  commented  upon  the  life 
of  men  and  the  life  of  books. 

"  All  that  was  just  after  the  Civil  War,"  mused 
Sister.  "  Now  we  stand  here,  with  the  country 
on  the  verge  of  another  war — over  the  verge. 
Will  there  be  others  standing  here  and  other 
jvars,  and  so  on  endlessly,  and  the  old  houses, 

H- 184  •*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

grave  and  beautiful,  and  as  unchanging  as  the 
ways  of  men? " 

We  next  turned  our  steps  to  the  Common,  for 
a  glimpse  at  the  ancient  and  shattered  elm  under 
whose  boughs  Washington  had  once  stood.  It 
looked  smaller  within  its  circle  of  iron  rails,  as 
though  it  were  shrinking  gradually  from  view, 
vanishing  to  some  tree  Valhalla  where  it  would 
renew  its  noble  spread  of  branch  and  find  again 
its  youthful  girth.  Here  it  was  that  the  General 
took  command  of  the  Continental  Army.  While 
we  lingered  there  we  noted  how  many  among  the 
young  men  who  passed  us  were  in  khaki.  A 
very  large  per  cent  of  Harvard's  students  had 
joined  the  colours,  we  were  told,  and  the  town 
itself  had  given  many  to  the  cause. 

"You  should  go  to  the  Stadium  and  see  them 
drilling,"  said  our  informant,  and  it  was  like  an 
echo  of  the  counsel  given  us  at  Charlottesville. 

And  now  we  were  in  Harvard  Square,  before 
the  lofty  iron  fence  with  its  various  superb  gates 
that  has  long  since  replaced  the  wooden  wreck 
that  somewhat  untidily  separated  college  and  town 
in  the  days  we  had  been  thinking  about. 

Our  previous  personal  contacts  with  the  Uni- 
versity had  been  on  Class  Day  celebration,  when 
the  yard  and  the  quadrangle  are  transformed  to 
scenes  from  fairyland,  the  jewel-bright  lanterns 
shining,  the  sound  of  music  pulsing  and  fading, 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

the  gay  crowds  going  from  spread  to  spread,  or 
pressing  in  to  see  the  rooms  of  Senior  brothers, 
or  to  the  dancing,  or  crowding  about  the  pavilion 
where  the  band  discourses  the  dance  music. 
Seniors  then  hurried  along  in  cap  and  gown, 
there  was  flash  and  colour  everywhere,  an  endless 
turmoil  of  voices.  The  Sanders  Theatre  exercises 
lent  their  importance  to  those  black-gowned  young 
men.  You  would  sit,  bursting  with  admiration  if 
your  particular  Senior  was  to  read  the  Class  Ode, 
or  the  Class  Poem — but  that  was  always  sung  to 
the  tune  of  Fair  Harvard — or  the  Class  Oration. 

"  Great  old  days,"  I  sighed,  reminiscing  with 
Sister. 

"  I  always  liked  the  moment  in  the  afternoon, 
three  o'clock,  wasn't  it,  when  the  Seniors  formed 
in  parade  and  went  round  cheering  the  buildings. 
It  was  right  there,  in  front  of  Holworthy  that 
they  assembled,  and  then  around  the  yard.  What 
a  sight!  First  all  the  graduates,  then  the  various 
other  classes,  then  the  Seniors  in  a  solid  body, 
so  solemn  and  so  energetic  in  their  cheering— 
do  they  do  it  yet?  " 

Yes,  we  were  told;  Harvard  hangs  on  to  its 
traditions,  and  each  class  goes  through  pretty 
much  the  same  program  as  the  one  preceding  it 
the  year,  or  years,  before. 

After  marching  round  the  yard,  the  procession 
swings  across  the  river  to  the  Stadium,  that  great 

-j-186-*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

horseshoe  of  row  on  row  of  seats,  with  the  splen- 
did, columned  balcony  atop  and  its  outlook  on 
the  Charles.  All  the  visitors  have  gathered  there 
first,  and  then  the  lower  classes  have  marched  in, 
to  sit  on  the  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  waiting 
for  the  Seniors. 

e  There  isn't  a  more  wonderful  sight  on  earth," 
Sister  declared,  as  we  stood  in  the  yard,  recalling 
that  moment,  so  moving  and  so  dramatic. 

Then  we  both  laughed. 

6  You  can't  have  attended  Harvard  Class  Days 
in  your  budding  youth  and  remain  entirely  un- 
prejudiced," I  declared. 

Harvard,  as  everybody  is  well  aware,  is  the 
first  college  founded  in  America.  In  1636  the 
first  steps  were  taken  when  the  General  Court 
of  the  Colony  voted  four  hundred  pounds  toward 
the  establishment  of  a  school  or  a  college.  Next 
year  it  was  decided  to  choose  what  was  then  "  New 
Towne "  as  the  seat  of  the  institution,  and  the 
year  following  New  Towne  was  called  Cam- 
bridge, in  deference  to  the  number  of  the  founders 
who  had  been  associated  with  the  English  Cam- 
bridge. The  actual  naming  of  the  college  came 
in  1639,  in  honour  of  young  John  Harvard,  a 
master  of  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  who 
had  come  to  America  the  year  before  and  had 
instantly  become  deeply  interested  in  the  young 
seminary  of  the  new  world.  In  his  will,  and  he 

-M87-*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

lived  only  a  year  after  arriving  in  America,  he 
left  the  half  of  his  fortune  to  the  college,  a  sum 
amounting  to  nearly  double  that  voted  already  by 
the  Court.  He  also  left  to  what  was  to  be 
Harvard  some  three  hundred  books,  nucleus  of 
the  Library.  It  was  in  this  year,  1639,  that  the 
college  was  organised.  Since  1640  the  history 
has  been  unbroken,  the  first  Commencement  fall- 
ing in  1642.  But  it  was  not  till  1650  that  the 
charter  was  granted,  the  charter  under  which 
Harvard  is  still  conducted.  This  charter,  in  all 
its  beauty  of  initial  lettering  and  decoration,  is 
still  to  be  seen.  It  has  worked  well  and  lasted 
well,  though  at  one  time,  1692,  when  a  new 
charter  was  granted  the  Colony  by  William  and 
Mary,  making  citizenship  dependent  on  property 
rather  than  church  membership,  there  came  near 
being  a  revolution  in  the  college,  led  by  Increase 
Mather,  who  kept  things  in  a  turmoil  for  ten 
years  or  more.  But  in  the  end  he  failed  to  have 
the  college  charter  changed,  its  liberal  and  tolerant 
ideas  winning  decisively  over  the  narrow  blueness 
of  the  Mathers,  father  and  son,  and  those  who 
supported  them,  a  blueness  that  reached  its  ideal 
in  Yale  when  that  institution  was  founded  in  1701. 
The  true  greatness  of  Harvard  dates  from  the 
time  when  President  Eliot  took  the  Presidency,  in 
1869.  Up  to  that  time  Harvard  was,  according 
to  the  words  of  Mr.  James  Bryce,  "  no  real  Uni- 

-H-188-*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

versity,  but  only  a  struggling  college,  with  uncer- 
tain relations  of  learning  and  research,  loosely  tied 
to  a  congeries  of  professional  schools."  At  the 
end  of  Eliot's  forty-year  incumbency  Harvard 
stood  among  the  great  universities  of  the  world 
and  was  instinct  with  a  vigourous  growth,  that 
continues  to  sweep  it  on  and  upward. 

But  enough  of  history.  Sister  and  I  were  here 
to  register  impressions,  to  catch,  if  we  might, 
the  passing  stream  of  undergraduate  life  and 
convey  some  of  its  colour  and  variety.  To  say 
a  word  for  the  old  buildings,  almost  unchanged, 
around  the  yard  and  the  quadrangle,  and  for  the 
new  ones,  spreading  further  and  further  with  the 
swift  growth  of  the  University. 

The  yard  has  lost  a  little  of  its  effect  of  seclu- 
sion and  of  age  in  losing  the  elms  that  once  made 
it  parklike.  Many  of  these  are  still  standing,  but 
looking  rather  like  those  rustic  hat  stands  that 
occupy  bungalow  hallways,  so  short  are  the  lopped 
boughs.  Besides  these  young  oaks  are  beginning 
a  sturdy  growth  and  throwing  an  effective  shade. 
A  hundred  years  hence  they  will  be  magnificent. 

Old  Grays  and  Boylston  are  unchanged,  out- 
side at  least.  Stoughton,  Holworthy  and  Hollis 
stand  in  all  their  former  dignity,  and  here  the 
undergraduates  still  house;  Holworthy  having 
become  particularly  the  home  of  the  Seniors  since 
the  slogan  "  back  to  the  yard,"  has  brought  the 

-f-189-*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

old  dormitories  again  into  favour — even  with 
students  who  have  lived  on  the  Gold  Coast 
through  the  earlier  years  of  their  college  life. 

Plain,  severe,  their  four  stories  and  many 
windows  look  down  serenely  on  the  green  stretches 
of  lawn,  cut  into  regular  segments  by  the  dividing 
paths.  This  austerity  is  a  refreshing  contrast  to 
the  splendours  of  the  Gold  Coast,  where  the 
money  that  it  cost  to  build  the  long  row  of 
luxurious  living  places  fairly  shrieks  along  the 
blocks.  In  these  concessions  to  the  modern  desire 
of  youth  to  do  itself  very  well  indeed  are  suites 
that  would  have  struck  awe,  not  to  say  horror, 
into  the  hearts  of  Harvard's  founders.  Here 
are  squash  courts,  swimming  tanks,  marble  en- 
trances and  much  more 

"  It  makes  one  think  of  those  huge  and  splendid 
liners,  the  Titanic  and  the  Lusitania,  now  van- 
ished from  the  seas,"  Sister  thought,  as  we  were 
shown  something  of  all  that  splendour.  But  the 
boys,  most  of  them  in  army  or  navy  uniforms, 
who  were  going  in  and  out,  looked  unspoiled  by 
the  munificent  preparations  made  for  their  daily 
living. 

"  They  will  learn  how  little  you  can  get  along 
with,  instead  of  what  is  taught  here,  how  much," 
I  said,  "  and  of  the  two  lessons  I  do  not  care  for 
that  of  the  Gold  Coast." 

Harvard  has  done  a  good  deal  to  combat  the 


53 

k. 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

scattering  of  her  students  by  making  it  the  thing 
to  come  back  to  the  yard  as  a  Senior,  and  by 
building  dormitories  specially  for  her  Freshman 
class.  Hollis  and  Holworthy  and  Stoughton  have 
been  brought  up  to  date  in  sanitary  ways,  with 
showers  and  electricity.  The  old  buildings  are 
once  more  exerting  the  charm  that  lies  in  restraint 
and  austerity  upon  the  undergraduates.  It  is  a 
joy  to  see  them,  in  their  ivy  mantles,  once  more 
returned  to  honour.  Hollis  is  the  oldest,  dating 
from  1763;  then  comes  Stoughton,  1805,  and 
Holworthy  seven  years  later.  The  other  old 
buildings,  Grays,  Thayer  and  Weld,  and  Boyl- 
ston,  with  Matthews,  were  erected  at  a  less  for- 
tunate period  in  American  architecture  and  have 
no  particular  value  as  landmarks  of  beauty, 
though  they  give  to  Harvard  an  added  bit  of 
that  feeling  of  age  which  remains  undisturbed  in 
the  yard. 

University  Hall,  built  of  white  granite,  where 
are  the  Faculty  room  and  the  various  administra- 
tive offices,  is  a  fine  example  of  the  best  work  done 
in  1815,  one  of  the  great  moments  in  American 
architecture.  And  then  there  is  Massachusetts, 
oldest  of  all,  built  in  1720,  and  used  only  for 
lectures  and  class  recitations,  facing  Harvard, 
with  its  pleasing  fa9ade  and  cupola.  In  the  north 
end  of  Massachusetts,  on  Peabody  Street,  is  a 
bust  of  Lowell,  by  Daniel  C.  French,  with  an 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

inscription.  These  make  the  total  of  the  buildings 
on  the  yard  proper,  though  the  quadrangle  ex- 
tending behind  University,  Thayer  and  Weld  is 
also  called  the  yard. 

The  old  Harvard,  that  part  of  the  University 
which  is  its  centre  and  to  which  you  go  when 
you  want  to  find  Harvard  itself,  is  fortunately 
thus  compact  and  harmonious.  It  lies  mostly 
within  the  precincts  of  the  yard  and  the  quad- 
rangle, and  Soldiers'  Field.  The  newer  portions 
go  on  indefinitely  in  the  Law  and  Scientific  Schools 
and  the  graduate  departments.  Down  by  the 
Weld  Boathouse  on  the  Charles  are  the  new 
Freshman  dormitories.  Radcliffe  College,  though 
its  social  life  is  entirely  apart  from  Harvard,  is 
none  the  less  closely  related  to  it,  making  use 
of  some  of  its  buildings  in  addition  to  those  it 
owns. 

Indeed,  it  is  remarkable  how  entirely  distinct 
Radcliffe  remains  from  the  University  of  which 
it  is  a  part. 

"  Radcliffe  girls  go  their  way  and  we  go  ours," 
said  a  student,  and  appeared  to  think  that  that 
ended  the  matter. 

Harvard  life  is  complex.  For  a  time  it  looked 
as  though  there  would  be  no  such  thing,  in  fact. 
So  great  were  the  divisions  among  the  men  in  the 
classes,  according  to  any  of  a  thousand  outside 
considerations,  that  the  college  spirit  and  even 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

the  solidarity  of  the  classes  was  practically  on  the 
point  of  extinction.  Athletics  had  got  to  be  a 
matter  of  purple  panes  to  your  windows  rather 
than  ability  and  strength  and  courage.  The  rich 
went  one  way,  the  poor  another,  and  the  in 
between  had  nowhere  to  go.  Men  passed  through 
the  whole  four  years  knowing  practically  no  one. 
Harvard  was  becoming  a  laughing  stock  in  the 
major  sports  and  a  place  of  privilege  and  favour- 
itism in  its  club  and  fraternity  activities. 

But  now  all  this  has  been  changed.  Partly 
this  is  owing  to  the  new  efforts  to  bring  Fresh- 
men together  for  their  first  year  of  college  life, 
and  to  reunite  the  Seniors  during  their  last  year. 
Largely  it  can  give  thanks  to  Percy  Haughton, 
who  broke  up  the  bad  old  athletic  system,  made 
excellence  the  one  requisite  to  winning  the  H,  and 
to  competing  in  all  the  sports,  and  lifted  Harvard 
back  into  the  very  front  of  intercollegiate  athletics. 

Athletics  is  the  one  greatest  meeting  point 
among  college  students.  Harvard  has  its  Union, 
costing  ten  dollars  a  year  and  open  to  every 
undergraduate,  but  the  very  size  of  this  club 
prevents  it  from  being  a  club.  It  is  a  useful  and 
necessary  institution,  and  is  constantly  crowded. 
Its  dining  room  is  extremely  popular,  its  assembly 
room,  beautifully  panelled  in  oak,  with  a  high 
ceiling,  gives  opportunity  for  frequent  social  af- 
fairs, and  the  big  library  upstairs  is  most  attrac- 

-+193+- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

tive.  In  the  assembly  room  there  is  a  very  good 
Sargent. 

One  wing  of  Union  is  used  as  the  'Varsity 
Club,  was  in  fact  added  for  that  purpose  in  1912. 
Here  are  the  training  tables,  and  the  centre  of 
athletic  interests  in  the  University.  Here  there 
is  something  like  a  true  democracy.  Athletics 
looks  for  the  best  man,  not  for  the  richest  or  the 
bluest  blooded.  The  unheralded  youth  from  the 
Far  West  is  going  to  get  his  seat  at  one  of  those 
training  tables,  if  he  has  the  stuff  and  the  am- 
bition. To  be  a  member  of  it,  it  is  necessary  to 
have  won  the  H — and  the  dues  are  kept  low. 
Harvard  has  learnt  her  lesson,  and  it  was  Percy 
Haughton  who  read  the  riot  act. 

The  old  days  when  two  members  of  the  Hasty 
Pudding  would  carry  a  great  iron  kettle  filled 
with  that  eatable  from  the  Commons  to  the  weekly 
meeting  and  feast  of  their  club  are  gone — Har- 
vard is  largely  given  over  to  little,  rich,  exclusive 
clubs  in  precious  buildings,  many  of  them  on 
Mount  Auburn  Street,  the  Gold  Coast  section. 
But  on  Soldiers'  Field  a  man's  a  man,  and  that's 
all  he  is. 

In  spite  of  the  clubs,  and  they  are  by  no  means 
so  important  a  factor  in  Harvard  life  as  one 
would  think,  because  the  University  is  too  big  to 
be  in  any  danger  of  being  swamped  by  the  club 
luxury  and  club  snobbishness,  a  real  success  is 

-j-194.-?- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

being  achieved  in  increasing  the  class  spirit  of 
the  students.  The  class  presidents  are  hard- 
working and  enthusiastic,  tireless  in  getting  up 
"  smokers  "  and  other  attractions,  and  though  few 
intimacies  are  made  between  men  who  belong  to 
clubs  and  men  who  don't,  yet  the  trend  is  toward 
a  closer  union  among  the  undergraduates,  as  some 
years  ago  it  was  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Roughly  speaking,"  said  one  of  the  several 
undergraduates  who  were  good  enough  to  steer 
us  round  the  college  grounds  and  to  pour  more 
information  than  we  could  digest  into  our  eager 
ears,  "roughly  speaking  there  are  three  main 
interests  in  Harvard,  literary,  social,  athletic. 
Naturally  the  men  who  care  more  for  the  social 
aspect  of  University  life  drift  into  clubs,  par- 
ticularly the  Porcellian  or  the  A.  D.  or  one  of 
the  smaller  clubs.  The  literary  man  will  get  in 
with  the  bunch  that  runs  the  Crimson  or  the 
Lampoon,  or  he  will  write  for  the  Advocate,  or 
maybe,  if  his  tastes  are  dramatic,  he  will  make  a 
bid  for  the  Hasty  Pudding.  The  Hasty  Pudding 
nowadays  doesn't  do  very  much  except  give  its 
farce,  an  elaborate  and  thoroughly  well  done  piece. 
It  has  its  old  club  house,  of  course,  and  there  are 
dinners  that  are  worth  eating.  But  its  big  theatre 
is  its  main  point  of  interest.  Then  there  are 
dozens  of  other  clubs  with  all  sorts  of  interests, 
appealing  to  all  sorts  of  tastes  and  types.  In  one 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

or  two  among  the  number  a  man  is  likely  to  run 
across  the  special  group  that  is  most  congenial, 
and  naturally  he  tries  to  join  it,  or  them.  As 
for  the  athletic  interest,  men  from  all  the  clubs 
may  be  members  of  any  of  the  teams  and  sports 
associations,  and  so  may  those  who  don't  belong 
to  a  single  one  of  the  clubs." 

The  Greek  letter  fraternities  have  in  most 
if  not  all  cases,  broken  away  from  the  na- 
tional organisations,  and  maintain  separate 
clubs. 

Rowing  is  of  course  one  of  the  chief  athletic 
sports  of  Harvard,  and  the  boathouse  on  the 
Charles  is  a  goodly  place.  There  are  two  clubs, 
the  Weld  and  the  Newell.  We  went  down  to 
watch  some  of  the  crews  pulling  about  in  shells; 
but  this  year,  since  there  will  be  no  race  with 
Yale,  the  interest  is  not  so  keen. 

"  Men  go  out  for  a  little  exercise,  not  to  train. 
The  training  is  all  for  war." 

After  we  had  seen  all  of  the  old  buildings  we 
pursued  our  investigations  into  the  rest  of  the 
yard,  where  once  stood  old  Gore  Hall,  where 
now  the  new  and  efficient  Library  fills  the  eye. 
Here  also  is  the  Chapel,  Sever  Hall,  Emerson 
Hall,  the  School  of  Philosophy,  built  by  Guy 
Lowell,  and  having  a  fine  effect  with  its  grouped 
pillars.  But  there  have  been  many  changes  here, 
and  the  old  graduate  is  said  to  grumble  when 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

he  looks  for  Shafer  in  vain,  and  the  ugly  house 
that  used  to  be  the  home  of  the  President,  and 
mourns  the  passing  of  Gore. 

We  left  the  yard  close  to  the  Fogg  Art 
Museum  and  walked  on  Cambridge  Street  for 
a  glance  at  the  old  Gym,  later  the  Rogers  Build- 
ing, and  since  then  the  Germanic  Museum,  and 
to  see  Memorial  Hall,  with  its  big  tower  and 
generally  somewhat  overburdened  style.  But 
though  it  lacks  in  beauty,  it  is  an  interesting  and 
significant  building,  raised  to  the  honour  of  those 
sons  of  Harvard  who  fell  for  the  Union,  and  it 
is  the  centre  of  the  Commencement  exercises. 
Its  western  wing  contains  a  huge  dining  room, 
solving  the  harassing  problem  of  Commons,  its 
eastern  portion  is  Sanders  Theatre,  and  there  is 
the  transept,  where  are  recorded  on  marble  tablets 
136  names,  though  later  researches  give  nearer 
170  as  being  the  correct  number.  This  lofty, 
vaulted  chamber  with  its  stained  glass  windows 
is  an  exquisite  shrine  to  the  youthful  dead  it 
honours. 

Near  by  is  old  Divinity  Hall,  on  Divinity 
Avenue,  built  about  the  same  time  as  University 
Hall,  very  dignified  with  its  plain  walls,  the 
projecting  central  portion  and  pediment  giving 
it  character.  Within  it  are  the  Chapel,  rooms 
for  the  various  classes,  and  accommodations  for 
less  than  fifty  students.  In  Francis  Parkman's 

.-*- 197  H- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

letters,  written  from  here  in  the  interval  between 
1840-44,  when  he  graduated,  there  is  an  amusing 
picture  of  the  charms  of  the  place,  not  exactly  in 
keeping  with  its  aims.  Here  is  a  passage : 

"Do  you  not  envy  me  my  literary  ease? — a 
sea-coal  fire — a  dressing-gown — slippers — a  fa- 
vourite author;  all  set  off  by  an  occasional  bottle 
of  champagne  or  a  bowl  of  stewed  oysters  at 
Wasburne's?  This  is  the  cream  of  existence.  To 
lie  abed  in  the  morning,  till  the  sun  has  half- 
melted  away  the  trees  and  castles  on  the 
window-panes,  and  Nigger  Lewis's  fire  is  almost 
burned  out,  listening  meanwhile  to  the  steps  of 
the  starved  Divinities  as  they  rush  shivering  and 
panting  to  their  prayers  and  recitations — then  go 
to  lecture — find  it  a  little  too  late,  and  adjourn 
to  Joe  Peabody's  room  for  a  novel,  conversation 
and  a  morning  glass  of  madeira." 

Why  Parkman  was  living  at  Divinity  Hall 
when  he  was  not  one  of  the  "  starving  Divinities  " 
neither  Sister  nor  I  could  tell. 

The  Divinity  Library  is  close  at  hand,  in  a 
comfortable  building,  and  across  the  street  is 
the  impressively  splendid  Andover  Theological 
Seminary.  Built  in  the  Norman  Gothic  style, 
with  a  lofty  and  beautiful  tower,  of  grey  stone, 
Andover  is  witness  to  the  ultimate  prosperity  of 
that  group  of  indignant  Calvinists  who  left  Har- 
vard in  a  rage  on  account  of  her  growing  sym- 

H- 198  -e- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

pathy  with  Unitarianism,  departing  to  Andover, 
there  to  set  up  a  school  of  their  own.  But  the 
animosities  died  down,  and  a  century  later  back 
came  Andover,  built  itself  this  fine  home,  and  is 
now  affiliated  with  the  University. 

There  is  another  Chapel  in  Harvard,  Holden 
Chapel,  close  to  the  Gates  behind  Stoughton,  a 
small,  plain  oblong  building  buried  in  vines.  It 
has  long  since  ceased  to  be  used  for  religious 
purposes,  however.  The  musical  societies  meet 
there  to  practise,  and  several  other  clubs  and 
societies  make  occasional  use  of  its  rooms. 

From  Divinity  we  went  to  look  at  the  Museum, 
a  huge  building  with  large  wings,  and  full  of 
various  collections,  among  them  botanical  and 
zoological  specimens  of  great  value.  We  wished 
especially  to  see  the  glass  flowers  made  by  the 
Blaschka  Brothers. 

Nothing  more  delicately  lovely  than  these 
flowers  and  grasses  exists,  each  perfect  copies  of 
the  original,  as  they  grow,  with  tiny  rootlets, 
delicate  frondy  leaves,  the  coloured  blossoms  sway- 
ing on  slender  stalks,  or  standing  bold  and  sturdy, 
blazing  in  scarlet  or  yellow,  or  holding  seed 
vessels,  round,  oval,  heart-shaped,  spiked  perhaps 
with  threads  of  down,  according  to  nature's  in- 
finite variety.  Each  is  a  botanical  specimen,  faith- 
ful to  the  least  detail,  and  each  a  rare  work  of  art 
and  an  example  of  limitless  patience.  There  are 

-*- 199  4- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

also  details  of  many  of  the  plants  and  flowers, 
stamens,  corollas,  special  forms  of  growth. 

'  To  think  that  we  never  came  to  see  these 
wonders  before!'*  exclaimed  Sister,  as  we  bent 
over  the  cases,  and  could  not  drag  ourselves  away. 
"  Somehow  '  glass  flowers '  sounded  distressingly 
ugly,  stiff  and  vulgar.  But  these  are  like  the 
imaginations  of  fairy  tale  or  Arabian  story  rather 
than  things  actually  made  by  human  fingers." 

The  Blaschkas  were  German.  From  the  same 
race  come  the  destroyers  of  Rheims  and  the 
violators  of  every  human  ideal  of  beauty  and 
honour.  It  is,  indeed,  to  wonder! 

We  took  a  roundabout  course  through  Holmes 
Field  on  our  way  back  to  the  yard,  past  the  house 
where  once  Dean  Ames,  of  the  Law  School,  would 
have  given  us  a  welcome,  inimitable  gracious,  as 
was  his  own  fine  spirit,  lighted  by  a  mind  whose 
clear  shining  was  a  constant  delight.  In  this  same 
part  of  the  college  grounds  are  the  Law  School, 
one  or  more  laboratory  buildings,  Pierce  Hall 
and  the  Gym.  At  Pierce  the  Engineers  do  their 
work,  carrying  it  forward  during  the  summer  at 
Squam  Lake  in  New  Hampshire,  where  they  live 
the  simple  life  under  tents. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  luncheon  with 
old  friends,  that  we  met,  in  front  of  the  John 
Harvard  statue,  which  is  now  no  longer  painted 
red  as  a  sign  of  youthful  humour  and  exuberance 

-+-200-H- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

by  the  undergraduates,  the  Senior  who  had 
promised  to  escort  us  to  Soldiers'  Field,  where  we 
might  see  the  drilling. 

Across  the  bridge  above  the  lazy,  shining  river, 
and  to  the  Gates  we  sauntered,  while  he  gave 
us  some  of  the  reasons  why  Harvard  was  "  the 
best  there  is."  They  were  all  excellent  reasons, 
and  related  with  the  same  joyous  enthusiasm 
which  we  recalled  in  those  students  of  the  other 
colleges  we  had  been  seeing  who  had  expressed 
like  opinions  in  regard  to  their  several  Alma 
Maters. 

"  You  see,  Harvard  leaves  a  man  free — treats 
him  like  a  gentleman,  and  expects  him  to  behave 
like  one  because  he  wants  to,  not  because  of  a 
lot  of  rules  and  regulations.  Maybe  it  goes  to 
the  head  of  the  Freshmen,  or  some  of  them,  at 
first,  but  they  soon  sober  up — you  have  to  work 
here,  for  all  they  seem  to  let  you  so  alone.  And 
a  man's  personal  character  is  what  counts  in  the 
end,  though  in  the  beginning  some  of  the  fellows 
think  they  can  make  the  best  clubs  or  frats  by 
playing  favourites.  But  they  don't  last.  Some 
of  the  critics  say  that  we  don't  have  any  class 
feeling  or  enthusiasm.  Well,  you  get  here  some 
time  when  the  Freshman- Sophomore  football 
game  is  played,  that's  all.  When  I  was  a  Fresh- 
man my  particular  chum  was  captain  of  the  team, 
and  we  won — why,  the  class  went  crazy.  There 

-j-201-*- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

couldn't  have  been  more  doing  if  Harvard  'Var- 
sity had  just  licked  Yale  to  a  standstill!  That's 
a  great  day  for  the  Freshmen,  and  all  the  favour- 
ite restaurants  in  Boston  know  they've  done  it 
again.  The  wind  up  is  for  the  whole  class  to  go 
to  some  theatre  where  they're  giving  a  good 
musical  show,  with  supper  afterwards;  nothing 
much,  ale,  rabbits,  you  know.  It  isn't  the  thing 
to  get  drunk." 

It  certainly  couldn't  be  the  thing  to  get  drunk 
when  it  came  to  that  splendid  body  of  men  we 
saw  that  afternoon.  At  the  gate  we  stopped  to 
read  the  inscription  on  the  marble  shaft,  voicing 
the  dedication  of  the  Field.  At  any  time  those 
words  are  solemn  and  moving.  Now  they  wrung 
the  heart 

To  the  Happy 

Memory  of 

James  Savage 

Charles  Russell  Lowell 

Edward  Barry  Dalton 

Stephen  George  Perkins 

James  Jackson  Lowell 

Robert  Gould  Shaw 

Friends,  Comrades,  Kinsmen, 

Who  Died  for  their  Country 

This  Field  is  Dedicated  by 

Henry  Lee  Higginson 

-+202+- 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

Below  is  the  following  stanza:  Emerson's: 

"  Though  love  repine  and  reason  chafe, 
There  comes  a  voice  without  reply, 
'  'Tis  man's  perdition  to  be  safe 

When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die/  * 

Here  our  student  left  us,  to  join  his  company, 
and  we  climbed  the  steps  to  the  very  top,  the 
promenade  behind  the  columns.  In  the  field  below 
the  khaki  ranks  marched,  halted,  manoeuvred  to 
the  brisk  commands.  Scattered  on  the  seats  were 
single  figures  and  groups,  some  mere  strangers  to 
the  boys  below,  others  nearer  by  ties  of  blood 
and  friendship,  who  sat  there,  feeling  on  their 
hearts  the  terrible  clutch  of  war. 

Beyond  the  eye  carried  far;  first  to  the  river, 
reflecting  the  green  and  the  blue  of  sky  and  tree 
and  swelling  shore,  cut  by  boats  that  sped  upon 
it,  some  rowed  by  girls,  some  paddled  along  by 
a  lonely  student,  his  brown  back  bared  to  the  sun. 
Beyond  to  Holmes  Field,  where  we  saw  the  tennis 
courts,  and  figures  in  white  dashing  about  on 
them.  Still  farther  away  the  trees  of  the  town, 
the  buildings  of  the  University,  the  charming 
streets  and  homes  that  surround  it,  farthest  of 
all  the  hazy  view  of  Boston,  from  which  the 
familiar  gleam  of  the  golden  dome  was  missing 
— another  sign  of  war. 


HARVARD  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

"  Company — Halt!  "  we  heard  from  below. 

A  brilliant,  happy,  sun-steeped  sight,  where 
peace  and  the  normal  life  of  human  beings  took 
full  expression. 

And  in  the  centre,  those  hundreds  of  boys  in 
khaki,  on  the  threshold  of  man's  life,  dedicate 
to  that  great  battle  for  freedom  that  has  never 
lacked  recruits  from  America.  Here  indeed  all 
of  Harvard's  students  met  on  an  equal  footing, 
whether  they  came  from  the  Gold  Coast  or  from 
the  barest  of  the  dormitory  rooms,  or  from  some 
little  boarding  house  in  an  obscure  street  in  Cam- 
bridge. Whether  they  belonged  to  the  most 
expensive  of  the  little  clubs,  or  clubless  fought 
their  way  through  Harvard,  working  at  any  job 
found  for  them  by  the  Employment  Office. 
Athlete  or  sybarite  or  grind,  here  they  were, 
answering  with  the  same  impulse  the  call  of  their 
country. 


'-?-  204  -f- 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Wellesley  College  in  Wellesley 

AND  now  we  were  to  visit  our  first  woman's  col- 
lege; for  though  there  had  been  the  Woman's 
College  of  Brown,  and  Radcliffe  at  Harvard, 
these  were  merely  additions  to  an  established  fact. 
Wellesley  was  the  independent  result  of  a  single 
inspiration,  it  had  grown  on  its  own  stalk,  the 
flower  of  an  enthusiastic  belief  in  woman's  right 
to  the  higher  education  and  the  conviction  that 
she  would  show  herself  capable  of  supporting  the 
means  to  it.  Vassar  is  its  elder  sister,  but  the 
woman's  college  was  still  sufficiently  experimental 
to  make  the  founding  of  Wellesley  something  of 
a  glorious  adventure. 

Wellesley  has  been  most  fortunate  in  her  sit- 
uation. Around  her  are  the  old  villages  of  Need- 
ham,  Wellesley  and  Wellesley  Hills,  with  their  old 
farmhouses,  many  of  these  over  a  century  old. 
The  Charles  winds  by  her,  spanned  by  many  a 
lovely  bridge  of  wood  or  stone.  Forests  are 
near,  and  hills  and  lakes  the  companions  of  every 
walk.  On  one  of  the  fairest  of  these  lakes  she 
stands,  amid  great  trees  and  wide-spread  lawns. 
Country  roads  lead  away  into  the  charming  New 

-+•205-*- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

England  environs,  roads  that  call  to  the  tramping 
foot  with  irresistible  appeal;  and  never  was  there 
a  lake  more  winning  for  the  boat  or  the  canoe 
or  the  swimmer  than  Lake  Waban. 

It  is  an  old  section,  this  township  of  Wellesley, 
a  place  of  quiet  history  and  gradual  growth,  of 
old  families  living  on  their  estates  for  generations. 
Nowadays  Boston  has  come  closer  and  closer, 
and  Wellesley  has  plenty  of  manufacturing  on 
her  hands.  But  the  signs  of  her  peaceful  farming 
past  are  still  evident,  her  river  banks  are  still 
green  and  tree-beshaded.  If  the  girls  who  study 
at  the  college  can  get  to  Boston  on  Saturday 
afternoon  for  the  matinee  in  less  than  a  half 
hour,  yet  within  the  college  grounds  it  is  difficult 
to  believe  that  a  city  exists  anywhere,  still  less 
that  it  is  barely  fourteen  miles  away. 

The  actual  building  that  was  the  original  Wel- 
lesley College,  and  which  was  almost  the  hand- 
work of  Henry  Fowle  Durant,  the  founder,  has 
vanished  in  the  great  fire  of  1914.  Long  before 
that  it  had  come  to  be  known  as  College  Hall, 
and  many  of  the  activities  of  its  early  years  had 
been  passed  on  to  newer  buildings,  sturdy  and 
beautiful  growth  about  that  noble  parent  stock. 
But  it  was  the  heart  of  Wellesley,  and  to  it  all 
the  traditions  of  the  college  clung.  It  had 
been  built  with  a  real  passion,  with  a  sense  of 
consecration. 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

The  story  of  how  Wellesley  came  into  being 
is  well  worth  the  telling. 

Back  in  1855,  when  the  Durants  had  been  mar- 
ried but  a  year,  Mr.  Durant  cast  about  for  some 
lovely  site  for  a  future  home.  The  region  around 
Natick  attracted  him,  and  he  bought  land  in 
Needham,  as  it  was  then.  The  place  had  its 
traditions,  dating  back  to  John  Eliot  and  his 
converted  Indian  chiefs,  Pegan  and  Waban,  after 
whom  the  lake  and  the  hill  are  named,  that  hill 
from  which  we  looked  across  at  such  lengths  of 
opal  distances  on  a  shimmering  morning  in  May; 
a  favourite  outlook  of  Wellesley  girls. 

This  Natick  is  the  scene  of  Mrs.  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe's  "  Old  Town  Folks,"  and  was  a 
beloved  retreat  of  hers. 

For  several  years  the  Durants  spent  their 
summers  at  Wellesley,  adding  to  the  estate  from 
time  to  time.  There  was  one  son,  and  for  this 
child  Mr.  Durant  planned  a  beautiful  home,  with 
a  great  house  on  the  hill  above  the  lake,  where 
now  the  gables  and  peaked  tower-roof  of  Stone 
Hall  make  a  notable  effect. 

And  then,  after  a  short  illness,  the  little  son 
died,  in  1863,  leaving  the  home  desolate. 

Mr.  Durant  was  a  lawyer  in  Boston,  and  a 
famous  one,  who  was  said  never  to  have  lost 
a  case.  He  was  vital,  energetic  and  magnetic. 
Whatever  he  did  he  did  with  all  his  soul.  His 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

interest  in  religion,  up  to  the  time  when  he  lost 
his  son,  had  been  what  may  be  called  academic. 
But  now  he  underwent  a  real  conversion.  He 
threw  up  his  law  practice,  saying  he  could  not 
reconcile  the  law  and  the  Gospel.  He  began  to 
conduct  revival  meetings;  and  he  everlastingly 
shocked  and  offended  Boston,  going  coolly  and 
with  perfect  good  breeding  on  the  way  of  salva- 
tion, according  to  its  type.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  be  a  Christian.  But  this  noise  and  publicity, 
dear,  dear!  And  Boston  looked  the  other  way. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of  Billy  Sunday 
of  that  time.  He  was  a  layman,  to  be  sure,  but 
like  Sunday  his  sermons  and  appeals  were  de- 
livered in  the  vernacular.  He  threw  all  the  train- 
ing and  temperament  that  had  made  him  ir- 
resistible at  the  Bar  into  his  new  work.  He 
gathered  great  crowds  and  made  passionate  ap- 
peals that  had  startling  results  in  bringing  to  his 
fold  men  of  fame  and  position.  He  refused  to 
accept  invitations  to  preach  unless  the  ministers 
agreed  to  co-operate  with  him,  and  the  invitation 
to  come  was  by  acclaim. 

From  all  contemporary  accounts,  Durant  was 
a  human,  lovable,  fiery  man,  handsome  and  dis- 
tinguished in  appearance,  a  force  wherever  he 
went. 

In  1867  he  had  been  made  a  trustee  of  Mt. 
Holyoke.  His  wife  gave  the  school  ten  thousand 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

dollars  for  building  a  library.  Mt.  Holyoke  was 
unable  to  take  care  of  the  numbers  who  applied 
for  admission,  hundreds  of  girls  being  turned 
away  every  year.  And  the  idea  of  founding  a 
new  place  of  instruction  came  to  Durant. 

To  think  was  to  act,  and  in  1870  the  charter 
of  Wellesley  Female  Seminary  was  signed  by 
Governor  Claflin.  In  1873  the  name  was  changed 
to  the  present  title.  Already  the  building  of  the 
great  house  was  going  on,  the  cornerstone  having 
been  laid  in  1871. 

"While  the  walls  were  rising  he  kept  work- 
man's hours.  Long  before  the  family  breakfast 
he  was  with  the  builders." 

Husband  and  wife  toiled  together,  early  and 
late,  leaving  no  detail  un watched.  And  on  Sep- 
tember 8,  1875,  the  college  opened  its  doors  to 
three  hundred  and  fourteen  scholars.  They  came 
by  what  Wellesley  calls  "the  long  way"  now, 
through  the  gate  where  the  charming  Gothic 
Lodge  strikes  its  collegiate  note,  up  the  splendid 
avenue  shaded  by  elms  and  purple  beeches.  It  is 
a  magnificent  approach,  and  any  one  who  goes 
to  Wellesley  for  the  first  impression  should  go 
that  way. 

This  then  was  the  romantic  beginning  of 
Wellesley.  It  was  founded  by  a  man  who  wanted 
above  everything  to  bring  souls  to  Christ,  and 
there  was  plenty  of  criticism  from  the  early  stu- 

-J-209H- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

dents  and  the  professors  as  to  the  methods  he 
adopted.  He  made  himself  more  or  less  ridiculous 
to  many  of  the  girls,  and  probably  defeated  his 
aim  to  some  extent,  by  his  constant  harping  on 
the  subject  of  salvation.  Every  day  had  its 
Prayers,  its  Silent  Hour,  its  Bible  Class,  its 
Church,  its  second  Prayer  Meeting,  its  second 
Silent  Hour,  and  goodness  knows  what  else  in 
that  way.  There  was  also  Domestic  Work,  the 
girls  doing  much  of  the  work  about  the  hall  as 
part  of  the  curriculum. 

Nowadays  Wellesley  is  of  course  entirely  mod- 
ern in  her  teaching  and  her  attitude  toward  her 
students.  But  she  is  proud  of  her  religious  begin- 
ning, and  the  faith  of  Christ  is  very  living  with 
her.  In  the  new  building  on  the  hill  where  College 
Hall  stood,  not  only  the  old  cornerstone,  with  its 
Bible,  has  been  used,  but  also  the  keystone  to 
the  arch,  with  its  deeply  carved  I.  H.  S. 

For  all  that  religion  was  the  dominating  factor 
with  Durant,  he  had  a  fine  appreciation  of  the 
value  of  the  sciences,  and  from  the  first  Wellesley 
has  been  strong  in  that  direction.  He  also  be- 
lieved in  good  health  and  exercise  as  a  means  to 
it,  and  the  fine  Gymnasium,  built  in  1909,  shows 
that  Wellesley  has  splendidly  developed  her  means 
for  physical  well-being. 

Wellesley,  to  the  outside  world,  means  more 
than  anything  else  the  lovely  pageantry  of  Tree 

-i-210-*- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

Day  and  the  Float.  But  Wellesley  is  a  hard- 
working college,  with  high  standards  of  scholar- 
ship; it  is  the  student  publications  that  are  the 
first  to  visit  displeasure  upon  the  lazy  and  the 
careless. 

There  is  surely  one  thing  that  every  Wellesley 
girl  must  learn,  as  unconsciously  as  she  draws  her 
breath,  and  that  is  the  love  of  nature. 

Those  hilly,  sloping  grounds  in  their  spring 
dress  of  green  and  gold,  with  the  faint  rose  hues 
of  new  oak  leaves  tinting  the  woodlands,  and  with 
the  daffodils  nodding  in  the  grass — even  a  few 
hours  of  that  exquisiteness  are  unforgettable,  and 
four  years  of  Wellesley,  from  the  flaming  of  her 
autumns  to  the  splendour  of  her  summers,  through 
the  white  snows  and  frozen  stillness  of  the  lake 
in  winter,  what  a  march  of  beauty  they  are,  and 
what  enchanting  memories  they  must  give! 

We  two,  walking  through  the  flowering  shrub- 
bery, and  down  over  lawns  to  the  tree-edged 
beauty  of  Longfellow  Fountain,  that  is  like  a 
pool  where  Diana  might  come  to  bathe,  with  the 
spray  of  its  slender  fountain  blowing  idly  in  the 
breeze,  we  stopped  and  sighed  for  very  joy  of 
seeing.  Above  the  slope  that  bends  to  the  pool 
we  could  see  the  water  of  the  lake  taking  the 
sky's  blue,  and  a  perfume  was  on  the  wind  that 
touched  on  ecstasy. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  Wellesley  has  the  name 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

of  playing  more  delightfully  than  any  other  col- 
lege," Sister  declared,  as  we  lingered  by  the  mur- 
murous waters.  '  Was  there  ever  such  a  play- 
ground as  her  campus  ?  " 

I  suppose  the  chief  impression  is  that  of  spa- 
ciousness. These  hundreds  of  acres  are  so  free, 
so  unspoiled.  The  wide  campus  spreading  below 
the  new  Administration  Building  that  is  rising  on 
the  hill  where  College  Hall  once  stood  is  a  real 
sea  of  green,  rippling  to  the  bordering  trees  and 
the  edge  of  the  lake.  Wide  avenues  and  broad 
walks  lead  away,  curving  into  beckoning  distances. 
Dotted  about  are  the  little,  charming  houses  of 
the  student  societies,  and  the  stately  academic 
buildings,  crowning  the  slopes,  ending  the  vistas. 
There  are  golf  links  and  tennis  courts  and  a  base- 
ball diamond.  And  always  the  lake,  with  the 
snug,  attractive  boat  house,  the  pretty  canoes  and 
rowing  shells. 

Wellesley  is  democratic.  Plenty  of  rich  girls 
go  to  her,  and  many  of  her  students  are  by  no 
means  desperately  bent  on  acquiring  much  knowl- 
edge. They  come  to  the  college  because  it  allures 
them,  because  they  want  to  have  four  years  of 
college  life  and  college  sports,  quite  as  much  as 
for  a  degree.  But  they  are  not  snobs. 

"People  find  some  fault  with  us  because  they 
say  we  are  too  '  rough  and  ready,' "  laughed  a 
student.  "We  like  to  live  in  our  sport  clothes 

.+.  212  -*- 


A  Charming  Path  and  Steps  Lead  Down  from 
Stone  Hall 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

and  tennis  shoes;  we  like  to  swim  and  row  and 
play  ball.  Athletics  are  the  great  meeting  ground 
for  the  undergrads.  There  is  not  a  girl  who 
doesn't  take  some  interest  in  the  sports,  and  a 
girl  is  popular  here  not  because  she  can  spend  a 
lot  of  money,  but  because  she's  a  'good  sport,' 
and  able  to  represent  her  class  in  the  dances  and 
games  and  contests,  to  be  simple  and  straight- 
forward and  without  a  hint  of  affectation." 

A  healthy,  sane,  happy  and  thoroughly  busy 
life  is  the  Wellesley  life,  as  we  got  glimpses  of 
it,  and  as  we  heard  it  described. 

Before  telling  about  the  special  joys  and  inter- 
ests of  the  students,  some  picture  of  the  college 
as  it  is  in  its  buildings  seems  important.  We 
did  not  follow  any  plan  in  seeing  them,  perhaps 
there  is  no  definite  "  tour,"  of  the  grounds.  We 
simply  walked  to  the  spot  that  attracted  us,  and 
from  it  to  some  other,  until  we  had  enjoyed  a 
complete  if  haphazard  view— but  the  oaks  and 
the  lawns  and  the  shining  water  remained  the 
strongest  impression  of  the  college  incarnation. 

First  we  approached  the  New  Library,  built 
in  1909.  It  has  a  beautiful  Doric  facade  with 
fine  pillars  and  bronze  doors.  The  broad  steps 
are  perfectly  adjusted  to  give  the  right  effect 
of  welcome,  and  the  entrance  is  happily  adorned 
by  two  bronze  statues.  The  best  methods  rule  in 
the  interior  arrangements,  the  reading  room  sug- 

H-  213  •+- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

gesting  a  delightful  combination  of  comfort  and 
the  stimulus  toward  work. 

Stone  Hall,  one  of  the  dormitories,  is  now  the 
oldest  building  on  the  campus,  though  Music 
Hall  runs  it  close,  the  cornerstones  of  both  being 
laid  in  1880.  Next  year  came  Simpson  Cottage, 
the  college  hospital,  and  Waban  Cottage  belongs 
to  this  same  period.  In  the  autumn  of  this  year 
Mr.  Durant  died,  and  the  second  President  of 
Wellesley,  Miss  Alice  E.  Freeman,  took  charge 
shortly  afterwards.  She  is  perhaps  the  best 
known  of  the  six  women  who  have  been  at  the 
helm  there.  Three  new  dormitories,  Norembuga, 
Freeman  and  Eliot,  testified  to  the  growing  needs 
of  the  college  for  room  to  house  its  students. 
Wood  Cottage  came  in  the  next  administration. 
These  "  cottages "  are  charmingly  homelike  and 
attractive  inside  and  out.  Some  of  them  have 
been  remodelled  from  other  uses,  one  at  least  has 
been  moved  up  from  the  village,  but  they  have  a 
certain  harmony  of  simplicity  and  hominess. 

The  Farsworth  Art  Building,  dominating  a 
fine  slope,  with  an  interesting  treatment  of  its 
entrance,  is  one  of  the  most  successful  of  Welles- 
ley's  many  beautiful  structures.  Another  lovely 
thing  is  the  Hough  ton  Memorial  Chapel,  a  real 
triumph  in  college  chapels,  with  particularly 
exquisite  doorway  and  windows.  And  the  Whitin 
Observatory  makes  another  beauty  spot  on  the 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

grounds.  Looking  up  the  long  slope  of  the  hill, 
to  the  dome  and  wings  and  arched  entrance  of 
this  gem  of  a  building,  with  dark  pines  beyond 
it,  you  get  a  fascinating  effect. 

Music  Hall,  with  its  many  pinnacles,  has  been 
helped  out  by  Billings,  with  a  concert  hall  and 
classrooms,  so  that  music  gets  a  great  deal  of 
space.  In  the  Chapel  the  service  is  rendered 
with  much  care  to  detail. 

"  It  is  a  rare  treat  to  hear  the  vested  choir, 
and  see  the  girls  march  in  and  out,  and  hear 
how  fresh  and  sweet  are  their  young  voices,  and 
how  much  training  they  show.  You  ought  to 
stay  for  that,"  one  of  the  girls  told  us.  But  there 
is  testimony  to  the  effect  that  the  manifold  sounds 
of  practising  that  issue  from  the  many  windows 
of  Music  Hall  are  not  quite  so  harmonious.  The 
famous  Hencoop  that  was  quickly  put  up  after  the 
fire  to  fill  in  some  degree  the  huge  hole  left  by  the 
burning  of  College  Hall,  and  which  was  close  to 
Music  Hall,  suffered  much  from  Wellesley  devo- 
tion to  music. 

You  are  always  getting  back  to  the  water  at 
Wellesley.  A  charming  path  and  steps  lead  down 
in  front  of  Stone  Hall,  checkered  with  sun  and 
shadow,  and  we  went  along  it  just  for  the  pure 
joy  of  treading  the  pretty  way.  A  laughing 
group  was  coming  up  as  we  went  down,  most 
of  them  in  white,  and  the  picture  was  complete. 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

Girls  everywhere,  of  course.  On  the  tennis 
grounds,  on  the  links,  on  the  lake.  Arm  in  arm, 
talking  eagerly,  they  run  up  the  steps  or  saunter 
between  the  buildings.  They  shout  at  each  other 
from  the  windows  of  the  dormitories,  and  when 
we  looked  into  the  Gym  they  were  there  too,  in 
natty  suits,  swaying  and  jumping. 

War  has  claimed  their  attention,  though  in  a 
different  way  from  that  at  the  men's  colleges. 
Many  of  the  students  are  taking  nursing  and  first 
aid,  others  are  tackling  the  problems  of  agricul- 
ture. Their  problem  is  to  restore  and  to  create, 
not  to  destroy.  Wellesley  has  always  done  a 
great  deal  of  social  endeavour  work.  Inside  the 
gate  in  one  part  of  the  grounds  is  a  kindergarten 
school,  where  the  entertaining  and  lively  young- 
sters are  taught  by  those  girls  preparing  for  work 
as  teachers.  There  are  student  clubs  and  societies 
that  exist  solely  for  the  purpose  of  learning 
and  of  practising  enlightened  service  to  the  poor. 
But  the  war  has  swept  much  of  all  this  work 
into  its  own  circle  of  need,  and  in  one  way  or 
another  all  of  Wellesley  is  preparing  to  serve 
or  already  serving  the  country. 

The  students  at  Wellesley  have  touched  high- 
water  mark  in  their  Tree  Day  exercises,  and 
they  spare  no  time  and  no  trouble  in  making  this 
pageant  a  thing  of  unforgettable  beauty  and  per- 
fect adjustment  to  the  scene.  The  costumes  are 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

dreams  of  delight — the  colours,  turning  and  twist- 
ing with  the  long  march  across  the  lawns  and 
under  the  trees,  meet  and  mingle  and  dissolve 
in  a  shimmering  rainbow  splendour.  Floating  hair 
frames  the  young  faces,  floating  garments  adorn 
the  young  limbs.  After  the  procession  comes  the 
dancing — and  for  months  Wellesley  girls  have 
been  twirling  and  stepping  and  bending  and 
pausing  in  lovely  preparation  for  that  dancing. 
In  groups  and  singly,  blown  by  the  wind  across 
the  grassy  spaces  or  charging  toward  the  spec- 
tators like  youthful  Amazons,  to  the  sound  of 
music  that  seems  to  be  breathed  from  the  whisper- 
ing trees  and  to  change  into  motion  as  it  strikes 
on  their  ears,  the  pretty  creatures  live  before  you 
with  an  effect  of  fairy  wonder.  It  seems  im- 
possible that  the  scene  has  not  been  conjured  by 
some  Merlin  charm,  and  that  the  tree  that  has 
been  planted  with  all  these  stately  ceremonies 
will  not  immediately  be  transformed  into  some 
jewel-hung  princess  or  turn  out  to  be  hamadryads 
straight  from  the  Elysian  Fields. 

The  tree  planting  is  something  of  a  ceremony, 
while  the  spade  that  is  used  year  after  year  by 
the  planters  owes  itself  to  the  class  of  '81,  and 
especially  to  the  individual  efforts  of  Florence 
Morse  Kingsley,  the  novelist,  who  was  a  member 
of  that  class. 

For  several  years  there  had  been  a  tree  for 
-J-217-?- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

each  Freshman  class,  planted  and  selected  by 
Mr.  Durant.  The  class  of  '81  wanted  something 
better.  They  had  heard  that  the  customary 
golden-leafed  evergreen  had  been  assigned  them, 
with  a  place  under  the  Library  window,  but  they 
didn't  want  it.  They  wanted  an  elm,  planted 
right  out  in  front  where  it  would  have  room  to 
grow  and  be  sure  to  last  for  a  hundred  years 
at  least.  And  it  was  Miss  Kingsley  who  was 
chosen  to  break  this  wish  to  the  founder. 

The  idea  caught  his  fancy.  He  favoured  the 
buying  of  a  special  and  "  the  best  possible  "  spade 
for  the  planting,  and  agreed  with  the  proposal 
that  there  should  be  an  address  to  this  instrument, 
as  well  as  a  class  procession  and  song.  It  all 
went  off  with  spirit,  and  the  elm  of  '81  is  a 
flourishing  witness  to  the  real  beginning  of  Tree 
Day. 

The  idea  of  a  pageant  did  not  develop  until 
'89,  when  the  Seniors  gave  a  masque  and  the 
Freshmen  a  dance.  Since  then  each  year  sees 
something  more  elaborate  than  the  last,  though 
each  year  the  very  acme  of  perfection  seems  to 
be  achieved. 

Wellesley  has  its  Shakespearean  Society,  with 
a  beautiful  building  in  the  Elizabethan  style. 
Every  other  year  it  gives  a  Shakespeare  play  at 
Commencement,  and  on  the  alternate  seasons  either 
the  Art  Society,  or  Tau  Zeta  Epsilon  gives  a  series 

-+218-K 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

of  living  pictures  after  the  Old  Masters,  at  its 
Studio  Reception. 

Then  there  is  the  masque  of  the  Phi  Sigma, 
before  the  Christmas  vacation,  and  the  Zeta  Alpha 
and  the  Classical  Society  alternate  in  giving  a 
poetical  play  or  legend  at  Commencement,  always 
an  exquisite  production.  The  Classical  Society's 
offering  is  always  a  Greek  play,  and  is  one  of  the 
best  managed  things  at  the  college. 

One  of  the  most  spontaneous  and  perhaps  the 
j  oiliest  of  Wellesley  merrymakings  is  the  celebra- 
tion of  May  Day.  Tlje  Seniors  spend  the  morning 
rolling  their  hoops,  with  shrieks  of  excitement 
and  much  frantic  racing  and  breathless  exertion, 
and  in  the  afternoon  there  is  a  great  deal  of  ice 
cream  eaten,  cones  being  the  preferred  method  of 
serving  the  dainty. 

'  There  used  to  be  scrubbing  of  all  the  statues 
in  College  Hall,"  a  graduate  told  us.  "  The  girls 
would  be  up  by  six  in  the  morning,  mops  and 
pails  in  every  hand,  and  set  to  work  with  a  will, 
especially  on  Aunt  Harriet,  that  heroic  figure  in 
her  large  chair,  the  Miss  Martineau  by  Anne 
Whitney.  But  now  that  has  had  to  be  given  up, 
since  the  fire  destroyed  the  whole  group." 

Naturally  only  a  part  of  the  college  can  be 
members  of  the  different  societies  and  the  Greek 
Letter  clubs,  and  have  the  benefit  of  the  pretty 
club  houses.  This  is  natural,  but  it  left  many  girls 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

with  no  club  centre  until  the  Barn  Swallows  be- 
came an  institution.  It  began  as  an  Everybody's 
Club,  and  asked  to  be  given  the  barn  "  to  play 
in."  So  the  name  was  a  natural  result.  This 
generous  club,  to  which  any  student  in  the  college 
may  belong,  gives  entertainments  of  its  own  in 
the  big  barn,  plays,  operas,  anything  that  strikes 
the  fancy  of  the  members. 

There  are  many  other  interests  that  result  in 
the  forming  of  the  undergraduates  into  smaller 
or  larger  groups.  The  Little  Socialist  Club  is 
one,  so  is  the  Scribblers'.  Then  there  are  the 
editorial-minded  girls,  who  publish  the  class  peri- 
odicals and  papers,  the  Prelude,  the  News,  the 
Magazine. 

Then  there  is  the  "  Float."  No  story  of  Wel- 
lesley  would  be  complete  that  did  not  speak  of 
that  event,  when  the  lake  is  a  scene  of  wonder, 
when  Chinese  junks  sail  jerkily  beside  slender 
Indian  canoes  manned  by  dusky  maidens  in 
Indian  costume,  when  gondolas  ride  beside  shal- 
lops seemingly  constructed  of  flowers,  and  when 
the  lithe  young  rowers  in  their  shells  sweep  up 
and  down  the  shining  water  in  delightful  rivalry. 
Then  the  crews  gather  in  the  famous  "  star 
pattern "  and  sing  the  songs  written  for  the 
occasion,  and  the  crowds  on  the  banks  applaud— 
it  is  one  of  the  few  times  when  outside  spectators 
are  admitted  to  Wellesley's  amusements.  The 

-J-220+- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

singing  always  ends  with  the  Lake  Song  and 
Alma  Mater.  Then  the  Hunnewell  Cup,  for 
the  competition  of  the  crews,  is  presented,  and 
in  the  falling  darkness  fireworks  wake  to  brilliant 
life  across  the  lake. 

There  is  a  Field  Day  at  Wellesley  in  the  late 
autumn,  when  the  season  for  the  outdoor  sports 
draws  to  an  end,  with  contests  between  the  various 
teams  and  classes.  Golf,  tennis,  rowing,  field 
hockey,  basket  ball,  running,  archery,  and  baseball 
are  the  organised  sports,  and  competition  is  keen. 
There  are  no  intercollegiate  games. 

Riding  is  much  liked  by  the  students,  and  so 
is  walking,  and  the  country  invites  to  both.  In 
winter  there  is  skating  and  snowshoeing,  and 
skiing  is  coming  in. 

An  eager,  happy  life  it  is,  with  a  fine  balance 
between  work  and  play,  between  the  mind  and 
the  body.  Sister  and  I  looked  with  a  little  touch 
of  envy  at  the  students,  spending  their  four  years 
in  this  little  paradise  of  Massachusetts  country. 
The  college  has  long  since  given  over  its  cramp- 
ing rules  and  supervision.  The  student  body  is 
largely  self-governing,  and  has  adopted  the  honour 
system  with  shining  success.  It  is  trusted,  and 
it  proves  worthy  of  the  trust. 

Wellesley  is  growing  and  developing  with  every 
year.  She  drew  new  inspiration  from  her  fire, 
instead  of  despair.  She  is  stronger  and  more 

-+221+- 


WELLESLEY  COLLEGE  IN  WELLESLEY 

beautiful  because  of  it,  and  she  knows  her  strength 
as  she  did  not  know  it  till  the  tragedy  befell. 
The  old  bricks  that  have  gone  into  the  building 
of  the  new  walls  have  brought  the  power  of 
tradition  and  of  history  with  them,  have  passed 
on  that  spirit  of  consecration  that  saw  her  birth. 
But  she  is  filled  with  vital  young  life,  she  has 
no  fear  of  making  experiments,  and  no  one  can 
go  to  her  without  feeling  that  she  is  thoroughly 
American  and  modern  in  the  best  use  of  those 
words. 

As  we  drove  off,  down  the  "  Long  Way  "  we 
heard  behind  us  a  medley  of  joyous  sounds.  The 
girls  were  playing  a  baseball  game,  and  the 
laughter,  the  cheers,  the  calls  and  shouts  made  us 
laugh  too. 

"  It's  a  happy  place,"  I  said,  as  Sister  and  I 
smiled  at  each  other. 


222 


CHAPTER  IX 

Bowdoin  and  Old  Brunswick 

IT  is  always  a  surprise  to  find  Portland,  Maine, 
so  close  to  Boston,  for  the  city  itself,  the  country 
round  about  and  the  whole  feel  of  things  is  so 
utterly  different,  that  you  expect,  in  looking  for- 
ward to  this  difference,  and  in  spite  of  previous 
experience,  to  spend  at  least  twelve  hours  on  the 
train. 

So,  all  prematurely,  we  found  ourselves  at  the 
familiar  station.  But  we  wasted  no  time.  We 
hastened  to  get  up  into  the  town  and  to  order 
one  of  those  lobsters  that  give  to  Portland  a  rosy 
hue  of  its  own,  before  proceeding  onward  to  old 
Brunswick,  on  the  Androscoggin,  where  a  small 
college  with  a  very  high  reputation  for  scholarship 
was  to  be  our  next  point  of  observation.  A 
college  that  had  a  special  interest  to  us,  since 
here  it  was  that  Hawthorne  had  lived  as  a  youth- 
ful student,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  his  won- 
derful style  in  the  study  and  practice  of  Latin, 
in  which  he  delighted. 

Going  anywhere  in  Maine  is  a  joyful  experi- 
ence, for  all  that  roads  are  often  bad  and  the 
[trains  usually  uncomfortable  when  it  comes  to 

-i-223-*- 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

short  runs.  The  state  is  a  fascinating  one, 
whether  you  see  it  hung  with  fog  or  dripping 
with  rain  or  sparkling  in  "real  Maine  weather," 
as  the  proud  inhabitant  says  of  it  at  such  mo- 
ments, with  a  Californian  touch  of  proprietorship 
in  weather  conditions. 

The  few  miles  that  lie  between  Portland  and 
Brunswick  are  delightfully  crowded  with  pine 
trees,  picturesquely  scattered  with  villages  and 
chock-full  of  exhilarating  odpurs  of  the  sea  and 
the  sun-steeped  needles  of  the  evergreens.  Much 
of  the  country  is  flat,  but  Maine  is  never  entirely 
without  a  hill  or  a  bluff  in  the  offing.  Near 
Brunswick  there  are  plenty  of  both,  and  from 
these  bluffs  there  are  views  in  endless  variety  of 
the  island-strewn  sea,  the  cloudy  White  Moun- 
tains, the  river  running  swiftly  towards  its  falls 
— a  land  of  stretches  of  woodland  and  of  sand, 
of  a  deeply  indented  coastline,  a  land  where  the 
spirit  of  the  wilderness  yet  lingers,  not  to  be 
driven  out  in  centuries  of  human  occupation. 

Brunswick  gives  you  a  splendid  welcome  in 
that  great  wide  street  of  hers  that  runs  up  to 
the  college,  whose  tree-hedged  campus  makes  a 
terminus  to  the  vista  that  made  us  regret  giving 
the  necessary  time  to  dumping  our  luggage  at 
the  Bowdoin  Hotel,  and  removing  some  of  the 
smoke  of  travel  that  had  blown  freely  into  the 
car  during  our  forty-five  minute  transit. 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

Bowdoin  is  small,  but  if  ever  a  college  looked 
vigourous  and  competent  and  complete  it  is  that 
Maine  institution,  that  had  so  much  trouble  get- 
ting started  more  than  a  century  ago.  The 
campus  is  beautifully  ordered,  and  every  building 
on  it  has  beauty.  Its  trees  are  large  and  plentiful, 
not  to  be  wondered  at  when  you  think  that  it  has 
had  the  example  of  Brunswick  before  its  eyes, 
Brunswick  with  its  rows  of  magnificent  elms  and 
maples. 

We  entered  the  college  grounds  through  the 
severely  architectural  Gateway  of  the  Class  of 
1878,  a  gate  that  struck  us  as  singularly  appro- 
priate to  this  college,  that  has  no  fuss  and  feathers 
to  it,  but  is  devoted  to  hard  work  and  clean  fun, 
an  outdoor  life  and  simple  habits.  The  pillars 
are  brick  on  granite  foundations,  with  stone  globes 
as  finials;  a  graceful  iron  arch  uniting  the  two 
centre  and  higher  columns. 

To  the  right  was  Memorial  Building,  raised  to 
the  men  of  Bowdoin  who  fought  or  died  for 
the  Union.  Built  of  granite,  with  pointed  Gothic 
arched  windows  and  doorways,  it  is  exactly  right 
for  its  purpose.  Inside  there  are  offices  and 
lecture  rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  On  the 
second  there  is  a  finely  proportioned  hall  where 
exhibitions  are  held.  Here  we  saw  busts  and 
portraits  of  various  professors  and  presidents  of 
the  college,  as  well  as  some  of  the  graduates  who 

-+225-J- 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

have  become  world  famous.  Here  also  are  the 
bronze  tablets  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
soldiers  and  sailors  who  went  from  Bowdoin— 
two  hundred  and  ninety  of  them. 

Opposite  Memorial  is  the  oldest  of  the  college 
buildings,  the  first  one  that  was  built,  and  the 
only  survivor  of  that  first  period.  Massachusetts 
Hall  is  of  the  square  Georgian  Colonial  type  that 
lends  distinction  to  so  many  a  street  in  Portland 
or  Salem.  It  has  the  white  window  and  door 
frames,  the  small  portico  with  its  pillars  and 
balcony  atop.  A  roomy,  handsome  house.  Inside 
it  the  old  fireplace  is  still  in  working  order,  though 
probably  not  in  use.  It  has  the  ovens  and  the 
hanging  crane  and  utensils  used  by  the  first  Presi- 
dent, who  lived  here — as  did  all  the  rest  of  the 
college,  for  in  this  single  building  were  housed 
the  students,  the  lecture  and  recitation  rooms,  the 
Chapel,  the  dining  hall,  the  library. 

When  Bowdoin  was  incorporated,  in  1794, 
Maine  was  still  a  part  of  Massachusetts,  and  so 
remained  for  another  quarter  of  a  century.  Be- 
fore the  incorporation  the  people  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  Colony  decided  that  it  was  time  to 
have  a  college  a  little  closer  at  hand  than  Yale 
or  Harvard,  and  the  various  towns  and  cities 
started  to  bid  for  the  seat  of  learning.  They 
put  up  good  arguments,  and  the  talk  and  the 
disputes  went  merrily  on  for  months  and  months, 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

even  for  years.  It  was  not  till  1798,  however, 
four  years  after  Brunswick  had  won  the  allot- 
ment, that  work  was  actually  begun  on  Massa- 
chusetts Hall,  and  not  till  1802  that  the  building 
was  finished  and  equipped  for  business.  James 
Bowdoin,  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  distin- 
guished among  other  things  as  the  main  influence 
in  the  founding  of  the  American  Institute  of  Arts 
and  Sciences,  whose  presidency  he  held  till  death, 
was  the  man  honoured  by  the  new  college.  He 
was  already  dead,  but  the  matter  was  put  up 
to  his  son,  with  the  very  definite  hope  that  the 
college  would  come  in  for  some  recognition  from 
the  family,  a  hope  that  was  not  disappointed. 
This  son  was  himself  distinguished  in  his  service 
to  the  government,  serving  both  in  Spain  and 
France  as  Minister  of  the  United  States.  While 
in  these  countries  he  made  a  valuable  collection 
of  books  and  pictures,  as  well  as  of  minerals,  and 
these  all  went  to  the  college,  besides  tracts  of 
land,  and  money. 

So  at  last  Bowdoin  was  well  started,  nor 
has  she  ever  faltered  since  that  somewhat  slow 
beginning. 

President  and  students  have  long  since  moved 
out  of  Massachusetts,  which  now  contains  the  office 
of  the  Dean,  that  of  the  Treasurer,  and  the  Faculty 
room. 

"  There  is  also  the  Cleveland  Cabinet  of  miner- 
-+•227-?- 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

ology  and  natural  history,"  we  were  told,  but  we 
had  been  seeing  a  good  many  museum  specimens 
in  our  various  college  visits,  so  we  left  this  one 
unseen;  particularly  as  we  wanted  very  much 
to  view  the  unusually  good  art  collection  owned 
by  Bowdoin. 

"  You  can  see  things  all  day  long  in  the  open 
air,  and  not  be  tired,  but  begin  to  look  at  collec- 
tions indoors,  and  it's  all  over  with  you,"  Sister 
murmured,  and  I  agreed. 

Bowdoin  has  three  dormitories,  Winthrop, 
Maine  (here  Hawthorne  roomed  for  his  Sopho- 
more year)  and  Appleton  Halls,  running  along 
the  left  side  of  the  campus  in  what  is  known  as 
Chapel  Row,  as  the  three  are  divided  by  Chapel. 
They  are  four-story  buildings  of  brick  and  stone, 
extremely  attractive  as  seen  from  the  outside. 
Alongside  the  path  runs  a  fine  hedge  and  the 
trees  march  steadily  with  it.  They  were  filled 
with  orioles  and  robins  as  we  went  under  them 
that  spring  day,  the  song  and  the  fragrances  were 
drifting  into  those  open  windows,  where  each 
student  has  his  bedroom  and  study  as  well  as, 
be  it  added,  a  large  closet. 

"  Harvard  and  Yale  are  wonderful,  of  course, 
but  there  is  an  appeal  here  that  they  do  not 
have,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  on  to  the  Chapel. 
"  No  straining  here  to  see  who  can  find  the  most 
luxury  and  spend  the  most  money  doing  it.  No 

-1-228-*- 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

padded  soft  spots  for  our  young  men  in  this 
delightful  college,  but  fine,  clean,  homelike  rooms, 
the  waving  of  tree  branches,  the  constant  call 
to  the  out-of-doors  instead  of  to  the  city.  Clubs 
and  fun,  certainly,  athletics  as  a  matter  of  course 
— but  above  all  that  greatest  lesson  that  we 
Americans  need  to  learn,  that  you  can  get  the 
best  things  in  life  without  being  rich,  and  that 
luxury  is  the  last  thing  to  wish  for  your 


sons." 


After  this  wise  speech,  and  Sister's  nod  of 
acquiescence,  we  entered  the  Chapel,  that  Chapel 
in  the  Romanesque  style,  with  twin  towers  that 
rise  slenderly  into  the  air,  graceful  and  white,  for 
the  building  is  of  undressed  granite,  which  gives 
the  campus  a  quite  charming  touch  of  the  un- 
expected. Inside  the  effect  is  equally  surprising, 
for  here  is  a  chamber  like  those  so  often  found 
in  English  college  Chapels,  fashioned  like  a 
cathedral  choir.  The  broad  aisle  leads  straight 
to  the  pulpit,  with  a  panelled  screen  behind  it, 
beyond  which  is  the  organ  in  a  fine  arch.  On 
either  side  of  the  aisle,  facing  each  other  across 
its  space,  the  seats  rise  tier  on  tier.  Behind 
these  the  walls  are  decorated  with  mural  paintings 
that  are  chiefly  copies  of  the  Old  Masters,  while 
above  the  rows  of  arched  windows  admit  light  and 
air.  The  ceiling  is  decorated  with  transverse 
beams. 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

"  Shouldn't  think  any  boy  would  want  to  cut 
Chapel  here,"  was  our  thought.  And  we  wished 
that  we  might  attend  a  service  and  hear  the 
organ  peal  in  the  narrow,  lofty  place. 

Besides  the  Chapel  itself,  there  are  other  rooms 
in  the  building,  where  the  Christian  Association 
of  the  college  meets,  and  in  one  wing  is  the 
Psychological  Laboratory,  with  Banister  Hall  in 
the  rear.  But  just  what  Banister  Hall  is  we 
did  not  discover. 

Facing  Memorial  and  Massachusetts  Halls, 
across  the  long  stretch  of  the  campus,  is  Hub- 
bard  Hall,  the  college  Library.  Here  was  an  echo 
of  Princeton — the  fine  Gothic  tower  that  pro- 
jected from  the  body  of  the  building,  with  its 
pointed  finials,  rising  to  a  hundred  feet.  The 
Library  was  given  to  the  college  by  General  and 
Mrs.  Hubbard,  and  is  thoroughly  up  to  date  as 
well  as  being  a  particularly  beautiful  building. 
The  reading  rooms  are  delightful,  the  books  most 
get-at-able,  and  the  lighting  is  perfect.  The 
building  holds  some  notable  collections,  the  Long- 
fellow among  them. 

Two  more  buildings  stand  on  the  campus, 
which  is  some  twenty  acres  in  extent,  with  lovely 
lawns,  flat  as  a  table,  crossed  by  paths  that  make 
a  star  pattern.  Another  Memorial  Gate,  of  the 
Class  of  1875,  admits  you  to  its  pleasantness,  a 
delightful  gate  of  white  pillars,  standing  tall  and 

H-  230  •+- 


The  Severely  Architectural  Gateway  of  the  Class 
of  1878 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

pale  against  a  background  made  by  two  solid 
rows  of  trees. 

The  remaining  buildings  are  the  efficient  Mary 
Frances  Searles  Scientific  Building,  of  brick  and 
stone,  a  large  and  well  balanced  structure  that 
amply  fulfils  its  purpose,  and  the  exquisite 
Walker  Art  Building,  in  the  style  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  one  of  McKim,  Mead  &  White's 
successes,  and  that  is  saying  much. 

"  Here  is  a  little  building  before  which  I  should 
be  willing  to  sit  in  admiration  for  a  considerable 
space  of  time,"  Sister  remarked,  as  we  paused 
before  it,  enjoying  the  effect  of  the  loggia-like 
entrance  with  the  double  Doric  columns  support- 
ing the  central  arch,  and  the  grouped  columns 
within.  Fine  statues  of  bronze  stand  in  niches 
in  either  wing,  copies  of  antiques;  and  the  steps 
are  flanked  by  stone  lions  like  those  of  the  Loggia 
dei  Lanzi. 

It  is  amazing  to  find  so  fine  a  collection  as  is 
here  contained.  In  the  first  place  the  walls  have 
been  decorated  in  the  sculpture  hall  by  men  who 
are  world  famed — John  La  Farge,  Elihu  Vedder, 
Abbott  Thayer,  Kenyon  Cox.  Then  there  is  a 
remarkably  good  group  of  the  Barbizon  painters, 
with  a  ravishing  Corot  among  them,  and  a  fine 
selection  of  our  own  painters,  represented  by 
Winslow  Homer,  J.  Appleton  Brown  and  others 
of  that  time,  so  great  a  time.  There  are  also 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

beautiful  Flemish  tapestries,  wonderful  old 
pieces  of  Saracen  armour,  medieval  and  modern 
weapons,  and  lovely  specimens  of  glass  and 
pottery. 

It  is  not  too  big,  it  is  not  too  crowded,  it  is 
beautifully  arranged,  that  collection,  and  we  went 
about  looking  at  it  with  extreme  enjoyment.  In 
the  Bowdoin  Hall  we  discovered  a  fine  cast  of 
the  Marble  Faun,  leaning  in  his  immortal  attitude 
of  youthful  carelessness  upon  the  supporting 
pillar,  and  looking  out  upon  the  world  with  that 
mysterious  suggestion  of  freedom  from  human 
cares  and  burdens  that  attracted  Hawthorne  and 
inspired  the  romance  written  around  him. 

Besides  this  notable  group  of  buildings  on 
the  quadrangle  are  others,  the  magnificent  great 
Gymnasium  and  Athletic  Building,  with  its  in- 
door tennis  courts  and  great  hall  for  gymnastics, 
its  showers  and  paraphernalia  of  all  descriptions, 
Adams  Hall,  for  the  medical  section  of  the  college, 
and  the  Observatory.  The  old  Gymnasium  has 
been  transformed  into  a  plant  to  heat  and  light 
the  college. 

Down  a  green-arched  path  where  the  pine  trees 
met  overhead  we  walked  to  the  Whittier  Athletic 
Field.  Here  is  the  Hubbard  Grand  Stand,  dedi- 
cated in  1904,  when  Bowdoin  celebrated  the  cen- 
tenary of  Hawthorne.  It  is  solidly  built  of  stone 
and  concrete,  with  accommodations  below  the  tiers 

'-*-  232  •+-' 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

of  spectators'  seats  for  the  athletes  who  do  the 
work.  Up  to  now  we  had  not  seen  many  of  the 
students,  for  it  was  afternoon,  and  the  campus 
was  deserted  by  all  but  a  few  who  were  putting 
in  some  work  at  the  Library  or  crossing  to  the 
dormitories  from  work  in  one  of  the  academic 
buildings.  But  here  we  found  the  drilling  in  full 
swing,  as  at  the  other  colleges.  Townsfolk  sat 
in  the  seats,  looking  on  and  making  comments. 
The  boys  were  a  splendid  looking  lot,  tall  and 
springy  of  step.  When  they  stood  at  ease  a 
ripple  of  laughter  came  from  them;  their  spirits 
were  clearly  of  the  best. 

Bowdoin  has  eight  fraternity  houses,  and  the 
Greek  Letter  Societies  are  in  high  favour,  both 
as  to  the  student  body  and  the  Faculty.  We 
saw  them  all,  charming  homes,  comfortable  and 
cosy,  standing  among  the  pines  or  under  the  elms, 
along  Brunswick's  pleasant  streets.  Here  the 
young  men  can  entertain  their  friends,  here  they 
have  their  meals  and  here  they  do  much  of  their 
playing.  There  is  also  the  Bowdoin  Club,  run 
for  the  same  general  purposes,  and  there  are  other 
organisations,  of  which,  of  course,  the  athletic 
is  dominant  in  interest  and  numbers.  The 
Dramatic  Club,  the  Masque  and  Gown,  gives 
entertainments  that  are  thoroughly  enjoyed  by 
the  audiences,  and  superlatively  delighted  in  by 
the  actors.  There  is  the  Ibis  Club,  small  and 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

select,  with  special  aims,  and  the  Glee  and  Man- 
dolin. There  is  a  Student  Council,  which  manages 
the  affairs  of  the  college  in  those  matters  that  lie 
between  the  undergraduates  and  the  Faculty,  and 
of  course  there  is  a  Debating  Council,  as  it  is 
called. 

Bowdoin's  interests,  aside  from  the  business 
of  being  at  college,  are  tremendously  out  of  doors. 
The  river  makes  a  wonderful  playground  both  in 
spring  and  summer,  when  canoes  and  boats  are  in 
constant  motion,  and  in  winter,  when  the  skating 
is  on.  The  ocean,  or  that  part  of  it  called  Casco 
Bay,  is  three  miles  away,  and  there  are  endless 
calls  to  the  men  who  like  to  tramp  through  the 
woods  afoot,  to  fish,  to  swim.  The  skiing  and 
snowshoeing  clubs  are  lively  organisations,  sure 
of  getting  all  the  practice  they  want,  for  you  can 
count  on  a  Maine  winter. 

Tennis  and  golf  are  both  of  them  college  sports. 
We  passed  the  courts  near  the  Observatory,  and 
all  of  them  were  occupied  by  active  figures  in 
white,  flashing  back  and  forth,  swinging  their 
arms  for  violent  whacks  at  the  ball.  The  students 
are  particularly  athletic  looking — they  are  tanned 
even  in  the  spring,  for  the  sun  on  snow  will  do 
some  pretty  good  burning. 

We  wanted  to  see  something  of  the  old  town, 
and  now  walked  back  along  Maine  Street,  whose 
splendid  width — it  used  to  be  known  as  the 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

Twelve  Rod  Road — remains  a  fresh  and  delight- 
ful surprise  no  matter  how  often  you  see  it,  and 
took  the  bridge  road,  to  hang  over  the  railing 
and  watch  the  Falls,  that  were  particularly  high 
after  the  long  wet  season.  The  water  rushed  and 
roared,  a  medley  of  foam  and  swirling  eddies. 
The  banks  spread  low  on  either  side,  and  fac- 
tories loomed  on  the  Brunswick  bank.  Over  the 
bridge  is  the  village  of  Topham. 

But  our  way  had  nothing  to  do  with  Topham, 
and  we  turned  our  back  on  it  forthwith,  and 
went  back  up  into  the  town,  to  find  Federal 
Street,  where  Longfellow  and  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe  lived — it  was  in  this  town  that  her  famous 
story  was  written.  But  the  river  proved  as  yet 
too  alluring,  and  we  walked  on  up  and  up,  past 
the  houses  and  the  factories,  past  the  pretty  boat 
house,  and  to  where  at  last  the  fields  merged  into 
woods. 

We  found  what  Hawthorne  had  found,  the 
"  shadowy  little  stream  .  .  .  still  wandering 
riverward  through  the  forest,"  which  now  bears 
his  name. 

"  I  wish  we  had  time  to  follow  it  up,"  I  said, 
as  we  listened  to  its  singing,  "  and  that  we  had 
a  rod  and  could  try  for  a  trout.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  catch  a  trout  here,  where  he  used 
to  fish,  and  where  Horatio  Bridge  and  he  used 
to  talk  of  their  futures,  and  Bridge  was  sure 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

that  Hawthorne  would  write  fiction.  Did  Long- 
fellow, too,  wander  here,  and  recite  his  poems  in 
;the  making?  Boys,  all  of  them,  then." 

There  is  always  something  unreal  to  others  in 
the  youth  of  any  one  past  middle  age.  In  the 
youth  of  a  man  or  a  woman  who  has  become  known 
to  the  world  at  large,  long  after  youth,  there  is 
something  of  the  miraculous.  You  know  it  to  be 
true,  and  yet  it  is  a  fairy  story  to  you. 

The  main  street  of  Brunswick,  to  which  we 
returned,  and  to  which  everything  in  Brunswick 
must  necessarily  return,  used  to  be  an  Indian  trail, 
from  the  falls  on  the  river  to  what  is  now  Maquoit 
Landing,  the  nearest  point  of  the  sea.  The  pines 
must  have  been  noble  then,  but  long  since  they 
have  fallen  under  the  axe.  Maine  has  shown  a 
selfish  disregard  of  her  fine  forests  that  has  never 
been  exceeded,  even  in  the  most  "  enterprising  " 
of  our  Western  States.  Now  the  pines  are  com- 
ing back  again,  but  the  giants  of  those  old  days 
are  no  more. 

Federal  Street  was  where  the  Stowe  house 
stood,  a  real  Maine  village  house,  two-story,  with 
gable  roof,  the  front  entrance  marked  by  a  porch, 
an  extension  behind  where  the  winter  wood  could 
be  stored.  The  hall  runs  right  through  the  middle 
of  these  houses,  with  fine  square  rooms  on  either 
side.  Large  windows  and  plenty  of  them  make 
light  and  air  in  abundance.  It  is  a  fine  home 

-f-236-*- 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

type.  Stowe  was  a  professor  in  the  college  when 
his  wife  and  he  settled  here,  and  they  had  lived 
in  the  place  for  two  years  before  she  began  to 
write  "  Uncle  Tom." 

Before  that  the  house  had  been  lived  in  by 
Longfellow  and  his  older  brother,  when  both  were 
students  at  Bowdoin;  Longfellow  and  Hawthorne 
and  Bridge  in  the  same  class.  The  house  where 
Hawthorne  boarded  part  of  the  time  he  lived  in 
Brunswick  was  said  to  have  an  outside  stairway; 
we  could  not  find  it.  But  at  any  rate,  the  brook 
was  a  better  place  to  visualise  him. 

The  town  hall,  the  public  library  and  the  mall 
are  attractive  parts  and  additions  to  the  Maine 
town.  It  is  a  busy  manufacturing  place,  and 
in  the  early  spring  the  logs  still  come  down  the 
river  in  immense  numbers.  But  it  retains  an  air 
of  leisure  and  reflection.  Its  streets,  because  of 
the  college,  are  full  of  youthful  beings,  and  in 
the  evening,  under  the  elms  and  in  the  mall, 
couples  stroll  idly,  and  the  soda  fountains  are 
well  patronised.  There  was  evening  service  going 
on  in  the  Congregational  Church,  at  the  head  of 
the  street,  close  to  the  campus,  also  called  the 
College  Church,  for  in  it  the  Commencement 
exercises  are  held,  the  Baccalaureate  services,  the 
Anniversary  gatherings,  and  such  other  cere- 
monies as  befall  from  time  to  time  in  the  college 
calendar.  This  is  the  First  Parish  Church,  and 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

a  beautiful  Gothic  building.  The  organ  sounded 
solemnly  as  we  strolled  past  it,  followed  by  a 
burst  of  voices  singing  some  old  hymn  —  it  was  a 
delightful,  sentimental  touch  that  admirably  suited 
the  soft  spring  evening  in  the  old  town. 

There  are  other  literary  associations  here,  but 
nowadays  they  are  fading  somewhat.  Who  now 
reads  the  Rollo  books?  It  sounds  like  one  of 
their  own  questions;  you  can  almost  hear  the  in- 
quiring Rollo  demanding  to  be  told.  Abbott,  the 
writer  of  these  informing  tales,  was  a  student  at 
Bowdoin,  as  were  his  brothers,  one  of  whom  wrote 
a  vast  number  of  popular  histories  which  have 
endured  more  stoutly  than  the  adventures  of 
Rollo. 

Longfellow  seems  to  have  been  the  only  one 
of  the  class  who  came  back  to  the  college.  He 
was  a  professor  here,  coming  in  1829  and  staying 
for  five  years.  Here  he  made  his  home  with  that 
first  wife  of  whom  he  sang  as 


.    .    .  The  Being'  Beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 
More  than  all  things  else  to  love 


Sorry  that  our  stay  must  needs  be  so  short, 
we  leaned  from  the  window  of  the  hotel,  looking 
out  on  the  town,  already  quiet  and  sleeping.  It 
must  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  professor  here, 


BOWDOIN  AND  OLD  BRUNSWICK 

we  mused,  a  pleasanter  still  to  be  a  student.  The 
air  came  to  us  with  a  savour  of  the  sea  and  a 
touch  of  damp  coolness.  Somewhere  a  bell  tolled 
and  immediately  a  dog  barked.  Silence  followed. 


-+•239 


CHAPTER  X 

Dartmouth  and  Hanover 

1  YES,  but  you  ought  to  come  here  in  winter! " 

That's  what  they  tell  you  at  Dartmouth,  if 
you  say  anything  as  to  the  beauty  of  the  hills, 
the  opportunities  for  wonderful  outdoor  life,  the 
fine  air,  the  loveliness  of  the  college  campus,  the 
spirit  of  the  students — oh,  anything  at  all. 

'  Yes.    But  you  ought  to  come  here  in  winter!  " 

And  back  a  few  years,  before  the  winter  of 
1909-10,  the  students  used  to  groan  at  the  thought 
of  the  long  snowbound  months,  when  it  was  blue 
smoke  rather  than  blue  air,  and  easy  chairs  rather 
than  skiis  and  snowshoes  to  which  they  devoted 
themselves. 

There  is  another  thing  they  tell  you  this  year. 
Dartmouth,  with  its  long  military  tradition,  has 
been  particularly  affected  by  the  war.  And  so 
they  add: 

"  You  won't  see  Dartmouth  as  she  usually  is — 
athletics  practically  gone,  hundreds  away,  khaki 
at  vespers  on  Sunday  instead  of  the  Seniors'  caps 
and  gowns,  no  singing,  the  music  associations 
broken  up  more  or  less — no,  this  isn't  like  Dart- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

mouth.     But   the   old    college    is    doing   herself 
proud!" 

Ninety  per  cent  of  Dartmouth's  undergraduate 
body  has  volunteered  in  one  form  or  another  for 
service.  Some  are  in  the  Plattsburg  Training 
Camp.  Others  are  already  in  France,  serving  in 
the  ambulance  corps  or  with  the  Red  Cross;  the 
Aviation,  Telegraphy,  Wireless  and  Signal  Serv- 
ices have  taken  more ;  not  a  branch  that  is  working 
for  the  country  in  this  emergency  but  has  Dart- 
mouth men  with  it. 

And  yet  the  lovely  campus,  the  beautiful  build- 
ings, the  yard,  the  encircling  hills,  the  wide  and  se- 
rene river,  remain  untouched  and  calm, — shrouded 
in  the  dying  light  of  a  purple  evening  when  first 
we  looked  about  us;  they  make  war  seem  a 
monstrous  impossibility,  a  thing  too  far  and  for- 
eign from  all  this  exquisite  peace  and  fragrant 
beauty  to  be  believable. 

And  the  war  will  pass,  and  Dartmouth  will  be 
here,  on  her  plateau,  and  the  students  will  once 
more  crowd  her  dormitories  and  hasten  to  Chapel 
in  the  morning,  and  play  games  again  on  her 
Athletic  Field.  It  is  a  comforting  thought.  And 
perhaps  this  is  truly  the  last  time  in  the  history 
of  the  world  that  the  young  men  from  America's 
schools  and  colleges,  from  her  fields  and  hills  and 
cities,  her  workshops  and  factories,  will  ever  have 
to  go  out  to  war.  These  boys,  whom  we  had 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

watched  from  Virginia  to  Maine  and  saw  again 
at  Dartmouth  marching  and  countermarching  to 
the  call  of  the  bugle,  these  boys,  some  of  whom 
were  never  to  come  back  to  alumni  meetings 
and  to  talk  of  the  old  days,  might  perhaps 
be  the  last  sacrifice  on  the  fierce  and  bloody 
altar. 

As  we  watched  them,  swinging  back  from  their 
drill  on  the  field,  rank  on  rank,  we  wished  them 
luck.  Somehow  up  there  in  those  quiet  hills,  in 
that  "  magnificent  isolation  "  on  which  Dartmouth 
prides  herself,  it  was  more  moving  to  see  these 
young  men,  consecrated  to  their  country's  service, 
marching  so  joyously,  and  breaking  up  with  an 
outburst  of  talk  and  laughter  and  sudden  calls 
and  hurrying  steps  than  it  had  been,  nearer  to 
the  centres  of  city  life,  where  we  had  watched 
men  like  them  at  the  same  act.  Here  the  con- 
trast was  too  immense.  With  towns  nearby,  with 
extras  sold  outside  the  college  gates,  with  factories 
and  all  the  varied  interests  that  approach  more 
or  less  closely  to  most  colleges  and  universities 
bringing  the  tangled  concerns  of  the  word  almost 
within  touch,  it  had  not  appeared  so  fantastically 
impossible  as  it  did  here  to  think  that  men  were 
once  again  at  the  business  of  killing,  and  that 
the  best  and  the  most  generous  were  the  first 
sacrifice.  But  Dartmouth  is  the  college  of  the 
wild  places,  and  the  strength  of  the  hills  encom- 

"-*-  242  -t- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

passes  her.  Nature  is  her  sister,  her  close  ally. 
The  terrible  fact  that  men  have  not  yet  learned 
to  settle  their  human  affairs  without  war  stands 
out  in  naked  horror  against  that  background. 
Until  all  have  learned  it,  the  lesson  must  go 
on.  But  it  was  infinitely  touching,  on  that  spring 
evening,  to  see  again  the  splendid  young  man- 
hood of  the  country  making  itself  ready  to  teach 
that  lesson,  whatsoever  the  cost. 

But  all  this  is  not  telling  the  story  or  giving 
the  picture  of  Dartmouth.  Yet  in  some  sort  it 
sums  up  the  various  impressions  both  Sister  and 
I  got  in  seeing  so  many  of  our  colleges  in  this 
war  year,  and  the  splendid  response  of  their 
students  to  the  President's  call. 

We  put  up  at  the  only  place  in  Hanover  to 
put  up,  the  Hanover  Inn,  run  by  the  college,  and 
one  of  the  most  delectable  hostelries  a  traveller 
may  find. 

We  were  given  a  room  overlooking  the  campus, 
a  charming  room  with  chintz  curtains  and  quaint 
wall-paper  that  positively  smiled  at  us  as  we 
entered,  so  welcoming  it  was. 

It  was  difficult  to  agree  with  the  expressed 
desire  that  we  should  see  Dartmouth  in  winter, 
when  we  looked  out  at  the  spring  Dartmouth. 
The  broad  campus  was  so  golden  with  dandelions, 
the  elms  were  so  delicately  trimmed  with  their 
new  leaves,  the  college  buildings  looked  so  beau- 

-f-243-*- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

tiful  in  their  green  frame,  that  we  were  quite 
content. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  Hanover.  But  prac- 
tically Dartmouth  and  Hanover  are  one.  The 
college  has  swallowed  the  town,  and  then  it 
happens  for  once  the  college  was  first  on  the 
ground;  I  do  not  know  whether  that  can  be 
said  for  any  other  American  college.  Here,  in 
1770,  came  Eleanor  Wheelock,  with  an  ox-cart, 
a  group  of  labourers  and  two  companions,  Syl- 
vanus  Ripley  and  John  Cram,  and  here  they  set 
to  work  to  hack  down  a  few  of  the  gigantic  pines 
and  to  build  a  log  cabin.  It  was  wilderness,  and 
for  that  reason  it  was  chosen.  For  Dartmouth 
is  an  outcome  of  the  old  Indian  Charity  School, 
Moore's  School,  founded  by  this  same  Wheelock 
about  1750  in  Lebanon,  Connecticut,  and  the  idea 
was  to  get  hold  of  more  Indians,  in  this  fresh 
spot,  close  to  the  great  water  highway,  and  make 
the  business  of  turning  Indians  into  college  grad- 
uates a  permanent  and  growing  one.  One  Indian 
graduate  of  the  Moore  School,  Samson  Occum, 
a  full-blood  Mohegan,  went  to  England  to  preach 
and  to  beg  for  subscriptions.  He  collected  in  all 
some  eleven  thousand  pounds,  and  aroused  the 
interest  of  Lord  Dartmouth,  who  became  the 
patron  of  the  proposed  new  college.  There  was 
no  idea  of  making  it  more  than  an  academy  at 
the  time,  but  when  Wheelock  realised  that  he 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

had  so  much  money  he  asked  to  be  incorporated 
as  a  college.  The  charter  was  granted  by  George 
III.  in  1769. 

That,  briefly,  is  the  beginning  of  Dartmouth. 
There  have  been  a  few  Indians  in  the  college  since 
its  foundation,  to  be  sure,  for  the  Indian  school 
idea  seems  to  have  lost  vitality  very  early.  Per- 
haps the  college's  most  famous  Indian  graduate 
is  Dr.  Charles  Eastman,  the  Sioux,  whose  re- 
markable career  has  done  more  to  make  white 
men  realise  the  splendid  material  the  country  pos- 
sesses in  its  Indian  population  than  any  other 
single  fact  in  the  last  fifty  years. 

We  began  next  morning  our  survey  of  Dart- 
mouth, and  learned  also  why  it  was  that  the 
winter  season  is  now  considered  the  halcyon  time 
at  the  college.  That  is  owing  to  the  Dartmouth 
Out  o'  Doors  Club — but  first  as  to  the  physical 
appearance  of  the  college. 

There  is  the  campus,  an  oblong,  open  green. 
Trees  stand  around  it,  and  beyond  the  trees 
buildings.  Our  Inn  was  on  the  south,  and  to 
the  east  and  north  stretched  the  college  park. 
Then  there  is  the  yard,  just  east  of  the  campus, 
where  some  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Dartmouth's 
buildings,  known  as  the  Old  Row,  stand.  Dart- 
mouth Hall,  one  of  this  row,  was  the  oldest  part 
of  the  college,  modelled  on  Nassau,  and  deeply 
beloved  by  every  Dartmouth  man.  I  say  was, 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

for  though  it  stands  there  now,  in  all  its  old 
beauty,  it  is  a  new  Dartmouth  Hall,  the  original 
building  having  gone  in  the  fire  of  1904.  But 
by  October  of  the  same  year  the  new  one  was 
rising,  testimonial  to  the  spirit  of  Dartmouth, 
of  which  one  hears  so  often.  On  either  side  of 
Dartmouth  are  Wentworth  and  Thornton,  fine 
and  simple  structures  of  brick  and  stone,  part  of 
the  new  system  of  dormitories  that  have  sprung 
up  in  the  college  since  1900.  Behind  these  are 
Reed  Hall  and  Bartlett  Hall.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  yard  are  the  three  Fayerweather 
dormitories.  As  these  dormitories  are  at  one,  and 
Rollins  Chapel  at  the  other  end  of  the  campus,  a 
splendid  spectacle  of  hastening  and  dishevelled 
young  manhood  flying  to  morning  Chapel  can 
be  got  from  the  advantageous  position  of  a 
window  in  the  Inn. 

Off  on  the  heights  of  College  Park  you  see  the 
slender  Tower,  which  has  a  superb  outlook  over 
the  whole  surrounding  country.  This  Tower 
stands  close  to  the  Old  Pine  Stump.  Once  the 
stump  was  a  tree,  till  struck  by  lightning  in 
1895.  Round  the  tree  the  Seniors  met  for  mo- 
mentous exercises  at  the  end  of  their  life  as 
students,  following  the  custom,  it  is  said,  of  old 
Indian  sachems,  who  here  had  held  peace  parleys 
and  smoked  their  pipes.  The  Seniors  did  the  same. 
And  to-day,  round  the  carefully  preserved  stump, 

H-  246  -*- 


The  Beautiful  Old  Row 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

they  still  gather,  smoke  their  last  pipe  together, 
and  then  smash  the  clays  against  the  stout  old 
fragment. 

Nearer  is  the  Observatory,  beautifully  crowning 
a  hill.  This  outlook  on  rising  hills  that  you  get 
from  the  high  plain  on  which  the  college  is  built 
is  most  attractive.  Pines  and  maples  and  oaks 
and  elms  mingle,  and  everything  swims  away  into 
the  sky — Dartmouth  is  truly  lapped  in  the  em- 
brace of  old  Mother  Nature.  And  she  is  taking 
every  precaution  that  the  taint  of  town  will  never 
touch  her,  never  come  close.  She  is  buying  up 
all  the  land  for  a  long  way  around,  to  hold  for 
elbow  room  and  breathing  space.  Nothing  will 
be  allowed  to  crowd  up  on  Dartmouth. 

Webster  Hall,  with  its  fine  columns,  faces 
down  upon  the  campus  from  the  north,  and 
makes  a  splendid  impression.  Near  it  are  College 
Church  and  the  famous  Butter  field  Museum, 
beyond  these  the  Graduates'  Club  and  another 
dormitory,  Elm  House.  All  of  the  students  are 
required  to  live  in  dormitories.  And  since  Dart- 
mouth guards  her  democratic  attitude  with  the 
greatest  jealousy,  the  simplest  single  rooms,  well 
within  the  purse  stretch  of  the  poorest  student, 
are  scattered  among  the  richer  suites,  where  the 
man  who  has  money  to  spend  can  find  all  the 
required  luxury.  There  are  no  selected  and 
favoured  buildings  for  men  with  gold  spoons  in 

-«-  247  -*- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

their  mouths.  These  dormitories  have  been  re- 
built from  older  ones,  or  are  entirely  new  within 
the  past  fifteen  years,  and  they  conform  in  their 
general  appearance,  which  is  simple,  adequate  and 
handsome,  with  the  lines  of  the  Colonial  days  while 
containing  the  plumbing  of  the  present  age. 

To  the  west  are  the  Parkhurst  Building,  College 
Hall  and  Tuck  School.  Parkhurst  holds  the 
administrative  offices  and  rooms — a  particularly 
beautiful  Faculty  room.  It  is  one  of  the  more 
recent  additions  to  the  college,  and  Dartmouth 
deserves  the  heartiest  congratulations  on  this 
newer  portion  of  her  equipment.  Each  building 
is  the  best  of  its  kind,  and  the  architectural  ef- 
fect, the  harmony  with  the  surroundings  and  the 
beauty  of  the  individual  structures  have  been  care- 
fully and  successfully  studied.  Dartmouth  Hall 
has  given  the  keynote,  and  though  the  many 
buildings  that  have  come  since  are  sufficiently 
various  there  is  no  false  note  in  the  entire  group. 

Tuck  School  is  one  of  Dartmouth's  supreme 
successes.  It  is  the  famous,  and  the  first,  school 
for  business  administration  and  finance,  intended 
for  post-graduate  work,  which  was  established 
under  President  Tucker  with  the  Amos  Tuck 
donation.  Harvard  has  since  achieved  a  similar 
institution,  but  to  Dartmouth  belongs  the  honour 
of  the  pioneer,  nor  has  the  fame  of  the  Tuck 
School  ever  been  dimmed  by  contrast. 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

College  Hall,  with  its  huge  semi-circular  porch 
supported  on  great  columns  that  rise  from  a  brick 
terrace  or  veranda,  popular  for  outdoor  lounging, 
is  the  home  of  the  Commons,  its  fine  dining  hall 
seating  five  hundred.  There  is  a  beautiful  great 
fireplace  in  the  assembly  room,  having  the  college 
seal,  with  its  legend,  "  Vox  Clamantis  in  Deserto," 
a  true  description  of  the  college  in  its  beginnings. 
There  are  also  rooms  for  various  social  purposes, 
and  dormitories. 

Dartmouth  has  many  fraternities,  flourishing 
and  well  managed,  all  allied  to  the  parent  or- 
ganisations, and  comfortably  housed.  They  do 
not  serve  regular  meals,  nor  can  the  members 
sleep  in  them  while  undergraduates,  and  they  are 
each  confined  to  a  small  membership.  But  they 
make  excellent  gathering  places  and  social  rendez- 
vous in  a  college  that  must  subsist  entirely  on 
itself  for  everything  of  the  sort.  Another  source 
of  fraternising  is  the  Robinson  Building,  given 
by  Wallace  F.  Robinson  of  Boston  for  the  use 
of  all  organisations  other  than  athletic  that  might 
find  it  convenient.  On  its  top  floor,  in  a  sound- 
proof room,  the  band  meets  for  practice.  In 
other  rooms,  exquisitely  appointed  and  commo- 
dious, the  various  publishing  and  editing  boards 
meet  to  transact  their  business.  There  are  two 
general  assembly  rooms,  and  a  lovely  little  theatre. 
Dartmouth,  by  the  way,  was  the  first  college  to 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

issue  a  college  paper.  It  has  three  publications 
running  successfully,  the  Dartmouth,  a  tri-weekly, 
the  Bema,  and  the  Jack  o'  Lantern.  The  latter 
is  the  humourous  and  the  Bema  the  literary 
magazine  for  undergraduate  efforts. 

Dartmouth's  Dramatic  Club  is  celebrated  for 
the  high  type  of  work  it  does.  It  has  given 
plays  like  "  The  Intruder,"  and  came  to  New 
York  City  to  give  two  matinees  of  "  The  Mis- 
leading Lady,"  at  the  same  theatre  where  the 
original  production  was  running.  What  is  more, 
the  critics  praised  the  performance  as  the  best 
ever  seen  in  New  York  by  college  players. 

Naturally  there  is  a  Gymnasium.  And  Dart- 
mouth isn't  content  with  calling  it  the  best  that 
any  college  has;  she  claims  that  it  is  the  largest 
and  finest  in  the  world.  It  looks  exactly  that. 
A  building  big  enough  to  have  an  indoor  diamond 
and  tennis  courts,  a  place  for  field  athletics,  pole 
vaulting,  shot  putting,  hand  ball  and  running 
track,  all  on  the  ground  floor,  with  rooms  for 
visiting  teams  above,  with  the  offices  and  trophy 
room,  and  up  on  the  top  floor  all  the  appurten- 
ances of  the  usual  gymnasium,  is  certainly  worth 
boasting  about.  It  stands  on  the  edge  of  the 
Athletic  Field,  where  there  are  more  tennis  courts, 
as  well  as  baseball  and  football  grounds,  and 
a  Grand  Stand  with  showers  and  lockers. 

They  didn't  let  us  stop  here.  We  were  shown 
-+  250  -*- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

Wilder  Hall  and  Culver  Hall,  Physics  and 
Chemistry,  and  taken  into  beautiful  Webster, 
named  after  Dartmouth's  most  famous  graduate, 
"  Black  Dan,"  as  he  was  called  at  college.  This 
is  partly  a  lecture  hall,  and  is  used  for  Commence- 
ment exercises  as  well  as  for  academic  purposes. 
There  is  a  collection  of  portraits  of  the  Presidents, 
distinguished  graduates  and  other  persons  inter- 
ested in  Dartmouth.  In  Dartmouth  Hall  is  the 
Art  Collection  proper,  with  other  collections  of 
more  technical  sorts. 

Rollins  Chapel,  with  its  pretty  tower  dominat- 
ing one  corner  of  the  campus,  is  a  very  real 
thing  in  the  students'  lives,  for  morning  at- 
tendance is  compulsory.  There  has  been  some 
grumbling  on  this  score,  but  on  the  whole  Dart- 
mouth approves  of  it.  It  gives  the  entire  college 
a  chance  to  see  itself  once  a  day;  to  get  its 
measure,  as  it  were.  Dartmouth  men  are  accused 
of  being  clannish.  They  are  certainly  stout 
champions  of  and  great  rooters  for  the  hill  college, 
and  they  think  that  morning  Chapel  gives  the 
right  impetus  to  the  youngsters  growing  up  to- 
gether into  alumni.  By  the  time  the  undergrad- 
uate is  a  Senior  he  thinks  so  too.  Therefore 
the  most  important  society  in  Dartmouth,  the 
Paleopilies,  which  is  the  student  governing  body, 
supports  Chapel  faithfully — and  the  hurried  pro- 
cession of  students  continues  to  fly  across  the 

-z-  251  -J- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

campus  each  morning,  coming  from  the  Row, 
from  the  Fayerweather  dormitories,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  groups  on  the  yard,  and  the  other 
houses  and  halls  that  are  so  liberally  scattered 
over  the  grounds.  From  the  first  day  this  at- 
tendance has  been  unbroken — and  traditions  at 
Dartmouth  are  passionately  cherished. 

A  Chapel  custom  that  is  also  very  old  is  that 
of  Singing  out  the  Seniors.  This  occurs  at  the 
last  Chapel  of  the  college  year.  For  the  cere- 
mony the  whole  college  attends.  There  is  a  read- 
ing from  the  Scriptures,  a  prayer,  then  an  anthem 
by  the  choir,  and  last  the  Seniors  rise  and  sing 
the  old  hymn  beginning 

"Come,  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue  .    .    ." 

As  far  back  as  1843  the  custom  was  already  an 
established  one.  Just  when  it  began  is  not  known. 

There  is  a  mild  form  of  fagging  at  Dartmouth, 
the  Freshmen  being  expected  to  carry  out  certain 
orders  from  the  upperclassmen,  to  beat  rugs  and 
drag  furniture  to  new  spots.  The  Freshman  also 
wears  a  cap  till  the  hour  when,  close  to  his  Sopho- 
more incarnation,  he  is  permitted  to  burn  the 
offensive  badge  of  immaturity. 

But  there  is  still  more  to  tell  of  undergraduate 
life  in  Dartmouth,  and  now  we  get  back  to 
winter. 

-i-252-*- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

And  here  comes  in  the  Dartmouth  Outing  Club. 
Only  a  youngster,  for  it  was  born  in  the  winter 
of  1909-10,  it  has  come  to  be  the  most  popular 
feature  of  the  entire  undergraduate  year,  as  well 
as  a  drawing  card  for  outsiders — for  dwellers  at 
the  Inn  who  are  coming  to  learn  the  joys  of  a 
Northern  winter,  and  for  other  colleges,  which 
are  beginning  to  plan  to  join  Dartmouth  in  some 
of  the  trips  organised  by  the  club.  It  had  its 
being  in  the  brain  and  energy  of  one  man,  a 
student,  F.  H.  Harris,  who  for  two  years  worked 
unceasingly  to  arouse  and  maintain  undergraduate 
interest  in  a  club  that  would  make  an  asset  of 
Dartmouth's  long  winter  and  her  snow-clad  hills, 
a  club  that,  on  skiis  or  snowshoes,  would  break 
a  pathway  from  hall  and  club  to  the  wild  places 
and  the  distant  peaks  within  a  wide  circle  of 
miles. 

Now  the  Hanover  winter  is  Dartmouth's  great- 
est joy  and  opportunity,  her  winter  Carnival  is 
coming  to  be  the  chief est  of  her  celebrations,  and 
her  students  are  developing  championship  form 
on  ski  or  snowshoe. 

To  turn  a  whole  college  from  fire-hugging 
through  the  frozen  winter  days  to  ski-running  is 
to  have  performed  an  act  of  no  small  merit. 
There  is  wild  country  in  the  region, — the  White 
Mountains  are  a  dangerous  field  for  amateurs. 
But  as  the  seasons  follow  each  other  the  Dart- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

mouth  men  climb  higher  and  fare  farther.  They 
have  topped  the  Presidential  Range  in  all  its 
covering  of  snow  and  have  built  a  chain  of  cabins 
for  shelter  on  their  long  tramps,  a  chain  that  they 
intend  to  lengthen  year  by  year  ...  to  extend 
possibly  as  far  as  the  Dartmouth  Grant,  a  great 
tract  of  26,000  acres  in  the  northernmost  corner  of 
New  Hampshire  along  the  Maine  border,  a  quite 
wild  home  of  many  peaks  and  lovely  lakes  and 
rushing  rivers,  where  the  bear  and  moose  still 
roam. 

Not  only  in  winter  but  through  the  splendid 
days  of  a  Northern  fall  does  the  Outing  Club 
lure  its  members  out  on  long  tramps  and  camping 
trips.  By  careful  management  of  the  permitted 
"  cuts "  a  student  can  save  up  several  days,  to 
spend  them  in  the  open,  and  more  and  more  is 
that  becoming  the  ambition  and  the  delight  of  the 
men.  But  winter  is  the  great  time.  As  one  of 
the  Dartmouth  writers  put  it,  "Dartmouth  men 
without  snowshoes  ought  to  be  as  rare  as  fish 
without  fins."  The  club  is  open  to  the  whole 
college — and  more  of  the  college  enlists  in  its 
membership  with  every  passing  year. 

Cutting  classes  is  a  fault  common  to  every 
student  in  every  college  the  round  world  over. 
But  few  are  the  students  who  cut  in  order  to 
get  away  into  the  huge  silent  places  of  forest, 
mountain  and  enwrapping  snow.  That  is  the 

-f-254-i- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

Dartmouth  temptation,  and  a  finer  and  a  health- 
ier one  it  would  be  hard  to  find. 

The  Carnival  is  a  round  of  splendid  sports. 
There  are  ski  and  snowshoe  races,  both  cross- 
country and  dashes,  and  obstacle  races.  There  is 
the  thrilling  ski  jumping.  The  evenings  are  given 
over  to  the  Outing  Club  Dance  and  to  plays  acted 
by  the  Dramatic  Club.  There  is  hockey,  and 
out  in  the  sweet  and  bracing  air,  it  matters  not 
whether  the  sun  rides  the  blue,  or  whether  old 
Mother  Carey  is  plucking  her  geese — there  is 
no  such  thing  as  bad  weather  at  a  winter 
Carnival. 

But  now  winter  had  gone,  and  even  were  it 
here,  the  Outing  Club  would  have  little  chance 
for  tramps  and  Carnivals.  Dartmouth  has  gone 
into  the  work  of  preparation  for  war  with  the 
greatest  seriousness,  and  we  were  shown  the  im- 
mense system  of  defensive  works  constructed  by 
the  students  under  the  tuition  of  officers  from  the 
French  front.  Here  were  the  wire  entaglements, 
the  pits  and  trenches  and  bomb  proofs  of  which 
we  had  read.  The  work  had  been  done  as  per- 
fectly as  though  it  were  really  prepared  for  a 
German  attack.  Regularly  every  afternoon  the 
men  had  worked  there,  and  practically  every 
student  in  Dartmouth  is  included  in  the  two  bat- 
talions. From  three  to  five  in  the  afternoon  they 
drill  on  Alumni  Oval,  as  the  Athletic  Field  is 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

called.  There  is  retreat  every  evening  on  the 
campus,  and  the  flag  comes  fluttering  down  to  the 
music  of  the  Star  Spangled  Banner.  .  .  . 

Class  Day  and  Commencement  as  usual,  is  the 
phrase  one  hears,  and  the  college  seems  to  listen 
acquiescently.  But  can  they  be  the  same? 

Capped  and  gowned,  the  Seniors  will  meet  at 
the  Senior  fence  and  march  across  the  campus  to 
the  college  yard  before  the  Old  Row,  where  the 
Marshal  will  deliver  his  address  of  welcome  to 
friends  and  alumni  gathered  as  usual  on  the 
lawn.  Then  will  come  the  Address  to  the  Old 
Chapel,  once  in  Dartmouth  Hall,  and  then  the 
band  leading,  the  Seniors  and  the  rest  of  the 
college  and  guests  following,  the  march  will  pass 
the  Bema,  where  the  Sachem,  in  his  Indian  dress, 
will  give  the  traditional  Sachem  Oration,  before 
the  company  winds  away  up  the  hill  to  the  old 
Pine  Stump,  round  which  the  Seniors  will  smoke 
their  last  pipe  and  then  break  their  pipes.  Yes, 
tradition  will  be  fulfilled.  But  half  the  class 
has  already  slipped  away,  by  twos  and  threes, 
and  cannot  come  back.  Under  those  graduating 
gowns  the  khaki  will  show,  and  the  words  of  the 
song: 

"  Stand  as  brother  stands  to  brother, 
Dare  a  deed  for  the  old  mother, 
Greet  the  world,  from  the  hills,  with  a  hail! " 
-j-256-i- 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

those  words  will  have  a  special  and  thrilling  sig- 
nificance— it  can  hardly  be  a  Class  Day  as  usual. 

But  Dartmouth  will  start  work  again  in  the 
fall  with  all  her  old  vigour  and  energy.  There 
is  to  be  no  curtailment  of  her  teaching  force,  no 
change  in  her  plans. 

Before  leaving  Sister  and  I  walked  through  the 
village  streets,  finding  the  house  where  Daniel 
Webster  put  up  when  he  came  to  Hanover,  now 
called  the  Leeds  house,  or  The  Maples.  It  was 
built  in  1778.  A  classmate  of  Webster's,  and  also 
a  famous  graduate  of  the  college,  Rufus  Choate, 
was  married  here.  Another  interesting  old  house, 
five  years  older  than  The  Maples,  is  now  the 
Howe  Memorial  Library.  This  house  has 
travelled  from  one  part  of  the  town  to  another 
several  times,  which,  we  were  told,  is  quite  a 
Hanover  custom. 

'  You  never  know  where  a  house  will  be  from 
one  year  to  another,"  said  an  inhabitant,  cheer- 
fully. *  When  a  man  finds  he  likes  somes  corner 
better  than  the  one  he's  living  on,  he  just  goes 
over,  and  takes  his  house  with  him." 

The  Library,  besides  its  travelled  ways,  has  the 
distinction  of  concealing  buried  treasures.  When 
a  partition  was  taken  down  ancient  and  valuable 
books,  coins,  and  trinkets  were  discovered.  Con- 
cealed cupboards  have  been  found,  containing 
other  such  treasures,  and  it  appears  likely  that 


DARTMOUTH  AND  HANOVER 

whenever  an  alteration  is  made  in  the  old  place, 
there  will  be  more  findings. 

The  Webster  house  is  a  small  story-and-a-half 
cottage,  a  sleepy-looking  little  place,  white  and 
neat.  So  far  as  we  could  hear,  it  had  always 
been  in  the  same  spot  where  it  stood,  but  this 
may  be  an  error. 

However,  as  I  said  before,  Dartmouth  and 
Hanover  are  practically  identical.  When  you 
walk  through  the  village,  you  are  almost  on  the 
campus,  and  all  the  interests  of  the  village  are 
bound  up  with  the  college.  The  rest  of  the 
world  lies  beyond  the  hills,  and  neither  college 
nor  town  want  it  any  nearer. 

"  Don't  miss  going  to  the  river,"  said  one  of 
our  Dartmouth  friends.  '  Take  the  fine  road 
under  the  pines  and  through  the  ravines  of  the 
Hitchcock  estates  that  has  been  built  by  the 
college  to  the  bluffs  above  the  Connecticut — it 
is  a  real  bit  of  scenery." 

But  we  had  lingered  too  long  looking  at  the 
campus,  with  the  regiment  marching  across  it, 
preparing  for  retreat,  and  time  had  come  to  leave. 
The  road  through  the  pines  must  wait  for  our 
hoped-for  return — perhaps  in  the  winter,  for  then, 
as  they  keep  insisting,  is  the  real  time  to  see 
Dartmouth. 


^-258 


CHAPTER  XI 

Amherst 

FROM  the  juncture  of  the  branch  road  that  takes 
you  to  and  away  from  Dartmouth  we  were  to  be 
snatched  into  a  car  belonging  to  friends,  and  to 
run  down  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut  in  all  the 
magnificence  of  careless  tourists,  lapped  in  luxury 
and  dust  coats.  So  it  was  up  in  the  morning 
early,  and  then  the  usual  wait  while  something 
unexpected  had  to  be  done  to  the  car — has  any 
one  ever  started  on  time  in  an  automobile? 

People  spend  a  lot  of  time  hunting  for  happi- 
ness in  this  world.  Yet  the  thing  is  absurdly 
simple.  A  perfectly  happy  life  could  be  attained 
in  choosing  the  car  you  prefer,  climbing  into  it 
with  one  or  two  congenial  friends,  and  then  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  Connecticut  Valley  for 
keeps.  I  present  these  plans  and  specifications 
free. 

:<  But  hold  on,"  said  Sister.  "  It  won't  always 
be  the  end  of  May  in  this  valley,  any  more  than 
it  will  always  be  honeymoon  time  in  a  marriage." 

Anyhow,   during  honeymoon   time   there   is   a 
supreme  conviction  that  the  thing  is  immortal— 
and  once  in  awhile  that  conviction  proves  correct. 

-i-259-?- 


AMHERST 

So,  when  we  get  to  managing  things  better  in 
this  old  world, — and  Lord  knows  there's  room  for 
improvement, — we  can  perhaps  arrange  for  ever- 
lasting spring  in  that  fair  valley,  with  its  towns 
and  villages,  its  huge  elms,  that  stand  like  immense 
green  fountains  along  the  roads  and  in  the 
meadows;  its  mounting  hills  and  rainbow  dis- 
tances, and  the  sweeping  curves  of  its  great 
river. 

We  idled  on  our  way;  we  were  lucky  enough  to 
have  that  sort  of  a  driver.  We  lunched  at  a 
roadside  inn,  and  we  had  dinner  in  Greenfield, 
most  gracious  and  winning  of  towns.  And  at 
Northampton  we  settled  for  the  night,  after  a 
run  through  the  sweet-smelling  night,  that  seemed 
crowded  with  hay  fields  and  whippoorwills,  the 
one  breathing  fragrance  and  the  other  shrieking 
passionate  complaint  to  the  unheeding,  dream- 
ing night,  deeply  occupied  with  its  tremendous 
work  of  creation. 

Amherst  is  a  bare  seven  miles  from  Northamp- 
ton, a  charming  academic  village  full  of  houses 
that  seem  to  be  remarking,  as  you  pass  them 
under  the  sheltering  elms,  "  I  am  an  American 
home."  The  flags  flung  out  by  the  call  of  war 
emphasised  the  American,  certainly.  But  it  is 
only  in  America  that  just  such  homes  are  found. 
At  once  sequestered  and  neighbourly,  with  gardens 
that  reach  up  to  the  broad,  shadowy  verandas, 

-f-260-*- 


AMHERST 

they  stand,  each  an  individual,  yet  with  a  family 
likeness  not  to  be  overlooked. 

Amherst  is  old.  It  was  more  or  less  vaguely 
settled  as  far  back  as  1731,  and  once  was  part  of 
Hadley,  but  in  time  was  separately  incorporated 
and  named  in  honour  of  General  Jeffrey  Amherst, 
Lord  Jeffrey  Amherst  as  he  became  later.  For 
ten  years  Noah  Webster  lived  here,  writing  his 
dictionary,  and  Emily  Dickinson,  that  rare  poet 
and  exquisite  spirit,  essence  of  all  that  is  fine  in 
the  New  England  character,  was  born  here.  So 
too  was  H.  H.,  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  whose 
grave,  in  far  away  Colorado,  I  had  so  often  seen, 
and  on  whose  cairn  among  the  mountains  she 
loved  I  too  had  thrown  my  reverential  stone,  to 
lie  with  the  great  pile  heaped  by  her  admirers 
through  the  years. 

In  each  broad  street  and  quiet  square  Amherst 
proclaims  itself  a  college  town,  existing  for  the 
sake  of  the  fine  old  institution,  whose  record  for 
scholarship  stands  so  high  among  the  smaller  col- 
leges. The  people  in  its  streets  have  a  professorial 
look,  or  else  fail  to  conceal  that  they  are  students. 
The  shops  are  the  College  this  and  the  College 
that,  and  the  drinks  at  the  soda  fountains  have 
their  college  tag  added  to  the  descriptive  name 
that  tempts  you.  Who  can  refuse  a  College 
Raspberry  Sundae,  who  escape  from  the  allure  of 
an  Egg  Flip,  College  Style? 

-*-  261  -*- 


AMHERST 

The  college  is  grouped  on  the  loveliest  part  of 
the  plateau  on  which  the  village  stands.  Two 
rivers,  small  and  adorable,  called  I  believe  the 
Fort  and  the  Mill,  amuse  themselves  winding 
about  the  town,  and  revealing  themselves  from 
almost  any  point  of  vantage.  To  the  west  the 
Berkshire  Mountains  loom  pleasantly  purple  on 
the  view,  beyond  sloping  meadows,  and  you  are 
pointed  to  Sugar  Loaf  and  Toby.  East  is  Mount 
Lincoln,  among  the  Pelham  hills,  and  south  the 
Holyoke  Mountains.  It  is  a  perfectly  planned 
arrangement  if  what  you  ask  is  beauty,  peace  and 
picturesqueness. 

Amherst  began  as  a  co-educational  academy 
about  1814,  and  among  other  acts  in  that  pre- 
college  period  it  graduated  Mary  Lyon,  founder 
of  Holyoke,  and  founder  of  real  higher  education 
for  women  in  America. 

Later  it  went  hard  to  work  to  become  a  real 
college,  and  after  much  difficulty  and  a  number 
of  disappointments  the  charter  was  granted  in 
1825,  some  four  years  after  the  college  had  opened 
its  doors  to  men  only.  Its  basis  was  a  fund  for 
the  education  of  ministers,  and  the  intention  was 
to  make  the  expenses  as  small  as  possible — Am- 
herst began  on  a  charity  idea,  in  fact,  and  to  this 
day  it  is  more  anxious  to  get  good  students  then 
to  make  money  out  of  them. 

The  way  to  see  Amherst  is  to  go  to  the  highest 
-*•  262  -*- 


AMHERST 

part  of  the  entire  village.  On  that  highest  point 
stands  the  old  college  chapel,  built  in  1828,  with 
the  two  dormitories,  South  and  North  College, 
that  flank  it  in  fine  simplicity  on  either  hand. 
Over  these  the  ivy  grows,  mantling  their  plain 
walls  and  framing  the  windows.  They  are  much 
the  same  in  style  as  the  old  dormitories  at  Har- 
vard, and  make  a  brave  showing  with  the  beautiful 
chapel  between  them.  Its  Doric  front,  with  four 
great  columns,  its  entirely-out-of-keeping  but 
utterly  delightful  square  tower,  one  square  super- 
imposed upon  the  other,  the  upper  being  slightly 
smaller,  with  a  well-marked  ledge  separating  the 
two,  and  there  is  a  clock  in  the  upper  half.  Up 
on  the  top  of  the  tower,  where  a  flag  waves,  you 
climb,  by  very  many  steps,  and  then  look  out  on 
the  whole  campus,  the  village,  the  farther  land- 
scape, the  distant,  framing  hills  and  mountains, 
a  charming  view,  that  looks  park-like.  The  many 
winding  driveways,  the  smaller  and  equally  wind- 
ing paths,  the  oval  in  front  of  the  Walker  Build- 
ing, the  more  distant  Pratt  Athletic  Field,  the 
village  common,  the  groves  and  fields  and  the 
crowding  elms  and  pines  and  oaks,  the  white 
farmhouses,  with  the  constantly  recurring  glimpses 
of  water;  all  this  makes  a  varied,  lovable  expanse, 
one  of  those  with  which  you  could  live  forever, 
it  is  so  beautiful;  and  yet  it  spells  repose  and  gen- 
tleness, not  forcing  you  to  admire  and  wonder  as 


AMHERST 

do  some  of  the  more  tremendous  efforts  of  nature, 
but  letting  you  alone,  like  some  good  friend  with 
whom  you  are  utterly  at  ease. 

The  Connecticut  vanishes  in  a  cleft  between 
Mount  Holyoke  and  Nonotunk  Mountain,  with  a 
last  flash  of  its  silver  shield.  The  hotel  on  Hol- 
yoke shows  up  quite  impressively.  It  must  be  a 
lordly  place  to  spend  the  summer.  On  clear 
mornings,  so  they  told  us,  Greylock,  Williams' 
mountain  guardian,  stands  out  finely  on  the 
horizon,  but  the  spring  haze  hid  him  from  us. 

It  is  difficult  to  tell  where  village  begins  and 
college  ends.  Facing  on  the  common  are  the 
President's  house,  the  Library  with  its  square 
tower,  and  the  attractive  Hitchcock  Hall,  where 
the  college  commons  is  spread.  This  fine  building, 
of  true  Colonial  type,  the  pillared,  Greek  ex- 
pression of  the  Colonial  idea,  was  made  over  from 
a  private  house,  and  fills  many  a  college  use, 
much  like  Harvard's  Memorial  Hall. 

The  old  campus  is  behind  the  college,  and  is 
pretty  well  surrounded  by  buildings,  though  a 
fortunate  gap  has  been  left  for  an  outlook  on 
the  hills.  On  the  north  side  the  Gothic  tower 
and  gables  of  Walker  Hall  face  the  campus. 
Here  are  lecture  rooms  and  the  college  offices. 
Through  it  you  are  taken  to  the  head  of  the  flight 
of  granite  steps  leading  from  its  north  entrance 
down  to  the  second  campus,  wide  and  beautifully 

-e-264-*- 


AMHERST 

parked.  The  chemical  and  physical  laboratories 
are  at  one  end  of  this  green — Hitchcock  at  the 
other,  the  village  side. 

Leading  away  from  near  the  Chapel  is  a  mag- 
nificent avenue  of  maples,  going  straight  east 
down  the  slope  to  the  Gothic  church,  with  its 
slender  tower.  This  is  truly  a  walk  of  enchant- 
ment. So  leafy  is  the  arch,  so  charmingly  the 
church  ends  the  long  vista,  and  the  College  Grove, 
scene  of  Class  Day  fun,  spreads  out  so  prettily 
as  the  pathway  skirts  it,  with  so  many  trees  and 
shrubs.  Perhaps  because  the  way  to  the  church 
is  so  delightful,  Amherst  has  been  the  center  of 
many  religious  revivals  in  the  past.  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  was  one  of  her  graduates,  as  was  Noah 
Webster.  Eugene  Field  is  said  by  some  to  have 
been  a  student  here,  but  it  seems  likely  that  this 
refers  to  his  work  in  a  private  school  for  boys  in 
the  village.  He  spent  a  year  at  Williams,  and 
that  is  about  all  of  college  life  that  he  had  in  the 
East.  We  were  sorry,  because,  as  an  old  friend 
of  our  childhood  days,  we  should  like  to  have 
visualized  him  in  these  academic  groves. 

Almost  opposite  the  Chapel,  whose  official  title 
is  Johnson  Chapel,  by  the  way,  is  the  Observa- 
tory with  its  Octagonal  adjunct,  and  directly 
down  the  slope  is  the  College  Fence.  This  Fence, 
at  which  various  joyous  and  strenuous  events  in 
undergraduate  life  are  said  to  take  place,  is  not 


AMHERST 

a  fence  in  the  sense  in  which  the  outside  world 
regards  fences.  More  does  it  resemble  three  of 
those  gates  used  at  the  horse  show  when  the 
jumpers  are  shown.  Longer  a  trifle,  and  not  so 
high,  the  three  wooden  segments  stand  in  strict 
alignment,  and  close  together,  side  by  side. 

On  the  southeast  corner  of  the  campus  is  the 
Pratt  Gymnasium  and  Natatorium,  a  brick  build- 
ing that  looks  comfortable  and  competent,  and  is 
said  to  be  well  fitted.  Amherst  has  had  triumphs 
in  intercollegiate  swimming  contests,  and  to  listen 
to  her  students  you  would  think  that  the  winning 
way  was  common  to  her — her  chief  enemy  is 
Williams,  and  the  year  she  doesn't  beat  Williams 
at  football  and  baseball  is  a  dark  and  dreary 
waste — "But  it's  rare!"  So  say  they  all.  We 
hadn't  reached  Williams  yet,  nor  had  we  looked 
up  the  record,  so  we  took  Amherst  on  faith,  at 
least  as  far  as  her  athletics  went.  She  has  a  beau- 
tiful field  in  Pratt.  It  is  named  for  the  family 
that  gave  the  Gymnasium  and  the  field,  as  also 
the  Pratt  Health  Cottage,  or  hospital. 

You  are  always  going  up  or  down  at  Amherst. 
Slopes  rule.  Back  of  the  church  the  ground  gives 
with  decided  sharpness  to  the  east,  looking  out 
over  the  Grove. 

There  wasn't  a  step  without  its  exclamation 
from  Sister  or  me,  usually  suppressed  enough  not 
to  harass  our  guide,  who  had  the  usual  youth's 

-+266-*- 


AMHERST 

lack  of  response  to  mere  views.  But  he  told  us 
with  great  delight  of  the  Flag  Rush.  The  pole 
broke  under  the  strain  when  he  was  in  the  at- 
tacking party,  as  a  Freshman.  The  Sophomores 
do  the  defence  work,  waiting  in  a  greased  and 
active  group,  and  the  Freshmen,  equally  greased 
and  equally  stripped  as  to  shirt,  fall  upon  them 
with  relentless  fury.  The  contest  is  short,  but 
by  the  time  it's  over  few  are  the  whole  garments 
left  on  those  struggling  frames. 

Green  is  the  colour  of  the  Freshman  cap  here, 
and  there  is  a  fire  set  flaming  at  Washington's 
Birthday  in  which  the  thing  is  burned  to  ashes. 

"But  as  far  back  as  October  we  don't  have 
to  tip  them  to  the  janitors  of  the  frat  houses," 
said  our  Mentor. 

The  fraternities  at  Amherst,  which  are  set  along 
the  village  common  and  on  its  prettiest  streets, 
charming  homes  in  many  styles,  some  very  beauti- 
ful, newly  built  and  in  exquisitely  kept  grounds, 
are  favoured  by  the  Faculty.  They  attract  at 
least  eighty  per  cent  of  the  students,  and  differ 
from  fraternity  houses  in  other  colleges  in  that 
Freshmen  are  eligible.  No  sooner  does  the  Fresh- 
man reach  college  than  the  various  societies  get 
busy,  and  the  rushing  for  members  starts.  Within 
a  few  days  the  Freshmen  are  distributed  among 
the  different  fraternities.  They  mark  this  honour 
by  raking  the  lawns  and  making  themselves  use- 

-J-267-J- 


AMHERST 

ful  where  told,  but  the  clubs  are  thenceforth  their 
homes.  Many  will  room  in  the  Dormitories,  and 
it  is  permissible  to  make  your  intimate  a  man 
from  another  fraternity,  practically  an  unheard 
of  thing  in  other  colleges.  So  that  the  cliqueish- 
ness  and  snobbishness  charged  against  the  frater- 
nities is  largely  eliminated  at  Amherst.  The  stu- 
dents all  live  either  at  the  Dormitories  or  the 
Fraternity  Houses.  Each  of  these  houses  is 
owned  by  its  society,  and  each  stands  in  pretty 
grounds. 

For  a  long  while  Amherst,  in  its  dramatics, 
devoted  itself  to  the  classical  drama.  But  interest 
waned.  The  students  did  not  seem  to  press  for- 
ward to  do  the  acting,  nor  were  audiences  mad 
with  enthusiasm. 

So  it  was  that  in  the  season  of  1914-15  a  change 
was  made.  The  College  Dramatics  Association 
decided  to  give  a  farce,  Ready  Money,  and  though 
there  was  some  opposition,  they  put  it  through, 
and  with  huge  success.  Amherst  seems  likely  to 
be  a  modern  producer  after  this,  and  thoroughly 
up-to-date  in  what  she  puts  on  her  stage.  The 
boys  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  the  work, 
rehearsing  faithfully  under  a  professional  coach, 
and  they  give  several  performances  on  the  road 
each  season. 

Amherst  has  its  Glee  and  Mandolin  Clubs, 
which  give  concerts  in  many  towns  and  cities 

-*-  268  -*- 


Johnson    Chapel,    with    its    Doric    Pillars    and 
Delightful  Square  Tower 


AMHERST 

during  the  spring  tour.  In  Amherst  their  con- 
certs are  held  in  College  Hall,  which  stands  fac- 
ing the  common  on  the  other  side  of  the  College 
Library  from  that  occupied  by  the  President's 
house,  and  is  a  beautiful  building  with  a  cupola 
and  columns  before  its  facade.  Here  are  held 
the  commencement  exercises  and  other  entertain- 
ments and  memorial  meetings. 

"  Come  and  see  the  collection  of  Audubon's 
birds,"  said  a  mere  outsider,  who  was  showing  us 
part  of  the  village.  "  The  college  is  famous  for 
its  fine  collections." 

In  Audubon's  day  the  new  method  of  stuffing 
birds  so  that  they  are  shown  in  their  very  habit 
as  they  lived,  was  not  practised.  But  the  name 
of  the  great  naturalist  was  in  itself  a  lure.  To 
think  that  it  was  he  who  had  done  the  careful  and 
beautiful  work  we  saw  was  delightful  to  Sister 
and  me. 

There  are  also  some  wonderful  things  from 
Egypt,  given  the  college  long  ago,  as  our  concep- 
tion of  time  runs,  though  in  contrast  with  the  age 
of  the  sculptured  tablets  it  is  but  a  moment. 

But  the  college  boy  is  not  so  greatly  interested 
in  Audubon  and  ancient  stones  as  in  Junior  Proms 
and  athletic  records. 

"  Is  there  a  good  deal  going  on  at  Amherst 
during  the  year?"  asked  Sister,  since  a  college  is 
a  place  for  acquiring  information. 

-i-269-*- 


AMHERST 

"  I'd  like  to  see  any  mathematician  who  could 
keep  score  of  all  the  house  dances  and  big  and 
small  entertainments  the  boys  manage  to  pull 
off,"  replied  our  town  friend. 

"  You  see,  the  Smith  girls  are  only  a  little  way 
off,  and  they  can  manage  to  snatch  occasional 
hours  from  their  work,  too.  So  that  between 
Amherst  and  Smith  the  college  season  is 
lively." 

"And  then,"  put  in  a  student  who  had  joined 
us,  "  we  manage  to  drag  ourselves  to  Springfield 
or  even  to  Boston  for  various  banquets.  The 
Juniors  have  to  have  theirs,  and  the  Seniors  theirs, 
and  even  the  Freshmen  must  eat.  As  for  the 
Sophomores,  they  began  too  young  to  break  the 
habit. 

"There  are  the  big  hops,  and  there  are  the 
small  ones,  and  there  are  the  dramatic  shows  and 
the  glee  concerts  and  the  smokers.  And  when 
there's  a  game  there  must  be  a  celebration  too, 
whether  you've  won  or  lost.  As  for  outdoor  work, 
the  Freshmen  manage  to  trample  down  a  lot  of 
snow  between  Jackson  Chapel  and  the  Octagon 
round  Washington's  Birthday.  That's  when  they 
set  their  bonfire  going." 

It  sounded  very  dazzling. 

"  And  who,  or  what,  is  Sabrina — or  Sabroona?  " 
It  was  I  who  put  the  question.  Hints  and  re- 
marks had  reached  us,  but  just  what  this  Sabrina 


AMHERST 

was — no  one  would  tell  us.  Nor  did  I  get  an 
answer  then.  It  is  a  college  mystery — and  it  will 
not  be  discovered  in  a  day's  touring. 

"  You'd  better  stay  for  Commencement,"  said 
the  student,  instead  of  answering  my  question. 
Perhaps  that  was  something  of  an  answer.  Only 
Amherst  readers  will  know. 

It  would  have  been  pleasant  to  stay.  There  is 
Ivy  Planting  by  the  Class  President  at  College 
Church,  with  the  Ivy  Oration  and  Ivy  Poem, 
uttered  by  inspired  Seniors.  The  fine  old  church 
is  already  the  home  of  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
of  twining  creepers,  and  each  class  adds  its  bit  of 
green.  But  best  of  all  would  be  the  sight  in  the 
Grove  after  sunset,  when  the  lanterns  are  hang- 
ing among  the  trees,  and  the  President  holds  a 
reception  in  a  gayly  decorated  tent.  There  is  a 
concert,  and  the  Senior  Sing,  and  the  ceremony 
of  the  Passing  of  the  Senior  Chalice.  Then  comes 
the  march  of  the  classes,  with  the  Seniors  in  cap 
and  gown,  winding  away  under  the  trees  and  along 
the  paths.  Finally  every  one  reaches  the  Gym- 
nasium, and  there  is  dancing.  Senior  night,  they 
call  it,  the  last  of  their  life  as  college  undergrad- 
uates. 

Amherst  has  its  Students'  Council,  with  mem- 
bers from  the  three  upper  classes.  It  has  the 
Amherst  Monthly  and  the  Amherst  Student,  and 
an  annual,  the  Olio,  published  by  the  Junior  Class. 

-+•271-*- 


AMHERST 

This  is  a  sort  of  compendium  of  the  four  college 
years.  It  has  a  class  history,  notes  on  all  the 
clubs  and  fraternities,  personal  histories  of  each 
member  of  the  special  class  doing  the  publishing 
that  year,  in  which  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  the  men 
get  free  play  and  thorough  expression.  Every 
one  in  the  college  helps  somewhat  in  getting  out 
that  book,  however.  Those  who  can  draw  con- 
tribute pictures,  those  who  can  write  do  their  bit. 
Beautiful  photographs  of  the  college  are  used, 
and  when  the  book  is  finished,  with  the  close  of 
the  Junior  year,  it  makes  a  record  worth  the 
keeping. 

Amherst,  like  Bowdoin  and  Dartmouth,  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  country  that  calls  for  winter  sports, 
but  so  far  there  has  been  nothing  much  done. 
We  heard  nothing  of  that  wild  joy  in  the  snow 
and  its  possibilities  that  Dartmouth  shows.  And 
neither  had  the  martial  spirit  produced  anything 
like  the  same  sort  of  enthusiasm  for  the  war. 
There  was  some,  certainly.  But  it  had  not  taken 
hold  of  ninety  per  cent  of  the  men,  as  at  Dart- 
mouth or  Princeton,  or  of  the  great  percentage 
shown  in  U.  of  V.  or  Harvard  or  Yale.  Amherst 
is  a  small  college,  and  a  studious  college.  Its 
students  take  a  deep  interest  in  the  courses  on 
Political  Economy,  Social  History  and  Institu- 
tions, and  in  Economics.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  hard  work  done  by  the  men  there,  and  the  aim 

-+-272-J- 


AMHERST 

of  the  faculty  has  been  to  keep  them  steadily  at 
their  work.  Amherst  men  are  at  Plattsburg, 
and  they  are  in  other  services  for  the  war.  But 
Amherst  is  not  a  military  college  in  the  sense  in 
which  Dartmouth,  where  there  is  a  summer  mili- 
tary school  this  year,  has  become  one.  It  has  its 
Rifle  Club,  and  this  year  the  membership  was 
tremendously  increased,  but  its  classes  have  not 
been  shattered  by  the  departure  of  hundreds  of 
men  to  the  war  work. 

This  section  of  the  country  is  full  of  old  Indian 
history.  They  take  you  to  a  clear  brook  tumbling 
along  under  arches  of  green,  and  tell  you  its  name 
is  Bloody  Brook,  for  here  in  the  beginning  of  our 
time  was  an  Indian  massacre.  And  over  in  Old 
Deerfield,  not  much  of  distance  away,  they  have 
the  marks  on  the  old  houses  made  by  Indian 
arrows. 

"  Many  of  the  undergraduates  turn  into  lonely 
trampers  and  fishermen  when  spring  arrives. 
There  is  the  Pelham  Trout  Brook,  running 
through  tree-clad  glens — that's  a  favourite  haunt. 
And  there  are  splendid  tramps  to  the  hills  and 
mountains  round  the  village.  Though  there  are 
no  scheduled  hikes  or  such-like  things,  you  will 
find  that  most  Amherst  men  grow  extremely 
familiar  with  the  surrounding  country  while  they 
are  here.  Get  any  graduate  talking,  and  he  will 
fill  you  up  with  the  glories  of  Amhert's  land- 

-i-273-f- 


AMHERST 

scape,  and  the  joys  of  her  wild  country  walks 
and  climbs." 

It  was  our  village  friend  who  spoke,  walking 
with  us  to  the  end  of  the  common,  where  the 
motor  car,  that  was  to  take  us  back  to  Northamp- 
ton, rested  at  the  curb.  The  hour  was  sunset, 
and  the  college  had  begun  to  throw  out  sparks 
of  light  here  and  there,  that  glimmered  through 
the  veil  of  branches  or  shone  clear  from  some 
vantage  point.  Along  Pleasant  Street,  with  its 
terraced  rise,  we  walked,  past  the  homelike  charm 
of  the  President's  house,  the  square  bulk  of  the 
library,  the  Grecian  loveliness  of  College  Hall, 
so  soon  to  ring  with  the  speeches  and  the  music 
of  Commencement.  Beyond  the  common,  on  the 
rise,  the  older  part  of  the  institution  was  grouped, 
dimly  seen  through  the  trees.  Across  this  com- 
mon hurried  young  men,  some  probably  on  their 
way  to  the  commons  at  Hitchcock,  others  to  the 
many  fraternity  houses.  Somewhere  what  sound- 
ed suspiciously  like  a  ukelele  was  twanging,  and 
up  the  village  street,  motor  cars  were  running 
slowly,  with  headlights  dimmed  and  loaded  with 
men  and  girls,  all  of  whom  looked  to  be  exactly 
twenty. 

"  After  all,"  declared  Sister,  "  living  in  a  col- 
lege town  must  be  a  tragic  business.  Necessarily 
you  get  older,  but  there  is  the  eternal  crowd  of 
youth,  unchanging  in  its  essence,  doing  practically 

•+274-J- 


AMHERST 

the  same  things  year  after  year,  always  be- 
ginning, and  most  so  at  the  moment  when  it 
ends,  to  go  forth  into  the  grown-up  world.  What 
on  earth  do  you  feel  like,  after  twenty  years  of 
it?  Better  to  spend  a  spring  day  taking  in  the 
full  joy  of  it,  and  then  climb  into  a  car  and  de- 
part. ..." 

Which  we  at  that  moment  proceeded  to   do, 
and  the  sentence  remained  in  the  air. 


275 


CHAPTER  XII 

Smith  and  Northampton 

NORTHAMPTON  has  devoted  itself  to  the  business 
of  being  a  college  town,  or  at  least  a  town  full 
of  students  and  professors  these  many  years.  It 
was  because  of  its  academic  flavour  that  Sophia 
Smith — for  Smith  was  founded  by  a  woman — 
chose  it  as  the  seat  of  the  college  she  planned. 
In  that  lovely  town,  whose  broad  and  tree-shaded 
streets  were  used  to  the  musing  eye  and  the 
student's  tread,  there  was  the  place  for  a  woman's 
college.  A  college  that  should  have  no  prepara- 
tory department  devoted  to  getting  its  students 
somewhere  close  to  the  status  for  admission  de- 
manded by  the  men's  colleges,  but  which  should 
set  precisely  the  same  entrance  demands,  and 
prove  to  the  world  once  for  all  that  a  woman  was 
capable  of  an  intellectual  culture  equalling  that 
of  her  brother. 

Miss  Smith  was  a  descendant  of  the  same  Lieu- 
tenant Samuel  Smith,  of  England,  who  crossed 
to  America  and  settled  in  Hadley  in  1660,  from 
whom  was  descended  Mary  Lyon,  the  pioneer  of 
women's  higher  education,  and  founder  of  Mount 
Holyoke  College.  Sophia  had  grown  up  in  Hat- 

-j-276-?- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

field,  long  a  town  of  culture  and  wealth,  for  that 
time  in  our  history,  and  her  own  education  had 
been  broad,  not  through  definite  teaching,  but 
because  of  association  with  men  and  women  of 
ideas. 

Her  brother  Austin,  dying  in  1861,  left  to  her 
a  considerable  sum  of  money.  But  Sophia  did  not 
want  this  money.  She  had  no  use  for  it,  and  she 
did  not  care  to  be  burdened  with  its  responsibili- 
ties. What  was  to  be  done? 

In  her  distress,  and  it  was  a  real  distress,  she 
went  to  her  pastor,  demanding  that  he  suggest 
some  use  for  her  money;  something  that  would 
be  of  benefit  to  the  entire  neighbourhood,  some- 
thing that  would  endure. 

He  gave  some  weeks  to  his  decision,  and  then 
brought  her  an  alternative  plan:  either  to  found 
a  college  for  women,  or  to  establish  an  institute 
for  deaf  mutes. 

The  lady  preferred  the  idea  of  a  college.  She 
thought  it  a  good  idea,  and  said  that,  were  she  a 
girl,  nothing  would  give  her  greater  happiness 
than  to  attend  such  a  college. 

But  immediately  there  was  a  great  hullaballoo. 
So  much  so  that  Miss  Smith  gave  up  her  college 
plan,  and  decided  upon  the  deaf  mute  institution. 
Then  occurred  one  of  those  acts  of  fate  that  make 
one  believe  in  the  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
A  rich  man,  dying,  left  provision  in  his  will  for 

-+•  277.  -H- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

the  deaf  mutes.  Miss  Smith  was  once  more  en- 
couraged to  take  up  her  original  idea. 

She  had  four  principles  that  she  wished  her 
college  to  stand  for.  That  the  tuition  should 
equal  that  in  the  men's  colleges.  That  the  Bible 
should  be  studied.  That  the  girls  should  house, 
not  in  one  huge  building,  but  in  cottages.  She 
also  thought  that  it  was  proper  for  men  to  have 
a  share  in  the  management  and  the  instruction, 
as  well  as  women,  because  she  did  not  believe 
in  isolating  the  sexes. 

Smith  is  the  largest  woman's  college  in  the 
world,  so  it  is  evident  that  these  ideas  had  value 
and  permanency. 

Sophia  Smith  died  in  1870,  and  the  following 
year  the  college  charter  was  signed. 

Northampton  was  offered  the  college  on  condi- 
tion of  subscribing  $25,000.  The  condition  was 
met.  Twenty-six  thousand  dollars  was  paid  to 
secure  the  house  and  lands  of  Judge  Dewey. 
Much  land  has  since  been  purchased,  the  old  line 
running  through  the  center  of  the  present  campus, 
but  at  the  time  there  was  very  little  money  to 
spare  and  much  to  spend  it  for. 

It  was  not  until  September,  1875,  that  the  college 
opened  its  doors  to  its  first  class — the  same  year 
that  saw  the  beginning  of  Wellesley.  A  central 
building,  College  Hall,  had  been  erected,  and  the 
Dewey  House  became  the  first  dwelling  place 

-*- 278-«- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

for  the  students.  Smith  began  with  but  one 
class,  adding  a  new  class  each  year,  and  this  first 
class  was  very  small,  on  account  of  the  stiff  re- 
quirements for  entering.  Dr.  L.  Clarke  Seelye, 
a  professor  at  Amherst,  became  first  President. 

A  beautiful  wall  surrounds  the  campus,  and 
the  college  is  very  compact.  The  Library  now 
makes  the  centre  of  the  group  of  buildings,  a 
beautiful  and  dignified  structure  surmounting  a 
rise.  We  got  a  fine  impression  of  the  college  by 
walking  round  it  inside  the  wall,  and  down  through 
College  Lane,  that  skirts  the  pond,  Paradise  Pond, 
where  the  girls  learn  to  become  water  nymphs, 
and  where  a  pretty  boat  house  has  been  built. 
There  is  a  charming  self-contained  effect  to  Smith. 
The  pretty  homes  in  which  the  girls  live,  fitted  in 
between  the  handsome  academic  buildings,  give 
to  the  college  a  homelike  and  yet  splendid  appear- 
ance. Huge  elms  edge  the  walks  and  drives,  and 
the  greenest  of  lawns  spread  everywhere,  while 
the  ivy  riots.  Each  class  plants  an  ivy,  with 
ceremony  and  lovely  exercises,  and  the  ivy  has 
responded  wholeheartedly  to  the  treatment. 

Each  of  the  cottages  has  a  lady  presiding  over 
it  who  takes  care  both  of  the  domestic  and  the 
social  affairs.  Smith  has  found  that  the  plan 
works  well,  and  that  it  is  easy  to  make  it  fit  in 
with  the  constantly  growing  resources  required  as 
the  college  expands.  Smith  had  a  stiff  row  to 

.-+•  279  -«-. 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

hoe  through  the  early  years.  The  refusal  to  lower 
the  entrance  requirements  kept  many  away.  The 
town,  seeing  that  the  classes  remained  small,  grew 
downhearted  over  the  thousands  it  had  spent,  and 
criticised  the  management  freely.  But  Smith 
hung  on. 

Presently  two  preparatory  schools  were  estab- 
lished in  Northampton  as  feeders.  The  students 
began  to  increase.  During  the  period  of  dis- 
couragement the  land  adjoining  had  gone  down 
in  price,  and  the  college  bought  up  a  lot  of  it, 
extending  to  the  north.  It  was  the  old  story. 
With  success  came  success.  Gifts  were  made, 
buildings  erected,  a  library  was  donated.  Up 
to  this  period  Smith  had  used  the  town  library, 
which  was  not  far  away,  with  a  complete  and 
useful  collection  of  books. 

Smith  girls  were  extremely  jealous  for  the 
standing  of  their  college.  They  would  have  been 
in  despair  if  the  entrance  exams  or  the  courses 
had  been  made  a  jot  easier.  They  not  only 
wanted  to  equal  the  men;  they  wanted  to  sur- 
pass them.  One  of  the  professors  who  lectured 
in  both  colleges  remarked  that  he  noticed  "that 
at  Smith  the  classes  desired  to  have  the  lessons 
longer,  while  at  Amherst  they  wanted  them 
shorter." 

Those  early  classes  were  very  serious  young 
women.  Smith  girls  are  not  that  way  now.  They 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

keep  to  the  old  level  of  requirements,  but  they 
manage  to  get  in  a  great  many  good  times.  The 
spirit  between  the  classes  is  particularly  friendly, 
since,  coming  in  at  first,  as  they  did,  one  by  one, 
there  was  no  reason  for  establishing  a  precedent 
of  control  or  rivalry.  The  different  classes  are 
fonder  of  giving  each  other  parties  and  serenades 
than  of  any  suspicion  of  hazing. 

Smith  has  been  lucky  in  losing  very  few  of  her 
buildings.  Two  or  three  have  been  removed  to 
make  room  for  better,  and  one  at  least  was  burnt, 
on  a  night  of  excitement  two  years  ago,  but  for 
the  rest  you  can  follow  her  story  of  growth  easily 
enough  by  starting  from  old  College  Hall,  and 
seeing  what  she  has  done  since. 

A  student  who  enthusiastically  took  us  about 
told  us  many  of  the  joys  of  the  college  year. 
We  were  standing  in  front  of  the  Library,  from 
which,  down  the  hill,  slopes  a  wide  path  to  the 
beautiful  Students'  Building. 

"  Down  that  hill,  beginning  the  Commencement 
exercises,  the  Seniors  roll  their  hoops,  and  the 
one  to  arrive  first  will  be  the  first  married  in  the 
class.  It's  lots  of  fun  to  see  them  flying  along, 
now  getting  all  snarled  up,  and  then  shooting 
ahead  without  a  break.  But  perhaps  the  most 
impressive  thing  in  the  year,  for  the  students,  is 
the  ceremony  that  comes  right  after  the  hoop 
rolling.  The  Seniors  take  their  places  on  the 

.-*-  281  •*- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

steps  of  Student  for  their  last  sing.  Music 
means  a  great  deal  in  Smith,  and  we  do  a 
great  deal  of  singing.  But  the  custom  of  the 
Seniors  singing  on  the  steps  whenever  the  eve- 
ning is  fine  enough,  that  is  the  most  effec- 
tive. 

"  The  other  classes  are  all  grouped  round  them, 
this  last  time,  while  they  go  through  the  program 
of  favourite  Smith  songs.  Then  they  all  stand  up, 
and  march  slowly  down  the  steps,  singing  their 
farewell  song,  written  for  the  occasion,  words  and 
music,  by  members  of  the  class.  When  the  last 
of  them  has  left  the  steps,  the  Juniors,  dressed 
in  white,  come  out  from  the  building  and,  singing 
a  serenade  to  the  Seniors,  followed  by  their  own 
step  song,  they  take  possession  of  the  steps,  which 
will  be  theirs  for  the  year." 

The  "  Libe,"  as  the  girls  affectionately  call  the 
library,  appears  not  only  to  be  the  centre  of  the 
campus,  but  of  the  students'  lives.  Each  has  her 
own  favourite  chair,  and  they  do  a  large  part  of 
their  work  in  the  great,  pleasant  rooms. 

"  Smith  needs  more  cottages  dreadfully,"  we 
were  told.  "  Now  only  about  forty-two  per  cent 
of  the  girls  can  live  on  the  campus.  Northampton 
is  full  of  lovely  places  to  board,  but  we  want  to 
get  hold  of  more  ground — that  over  there,  where 
the  State  Hospital  now  stands.  It  is  the  legiti- 
mate direction  for  us  to  grow  next.  They  hold 

-i-282-*- 


I 


The  Old  Homestead  of  Judge  Dewey,  with  its 
Columns  and  Doric  Simplicity 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

it  too  high  for  the  present.  But  we  are  all  sure 
it  will  come  to  Smith  some  day." 

"Have  you  any  fraternities?" 

Smith  hasn't  needed  them,  with  her  way  of 
living,  and  she  has  no  apparent  desire  for  them. 
She  has  plenty  of  clubs;  just  running  over  them 
hastily  gave  quite  an  effect.  There  is  the  Tel- 
scopium,  which  appropriately  holds  its  reunions 
in  the  Observatory,  topping  the  hill  beyond  the 
Library.  There  is  the  Granddaughter  Society, 
meeting  in  the  Haven  House  when  the  graduate 
members  come  back  to  talk  over  old  times.  Of 
course  there  is  a  Glee  Club,  and  there  is  a  Studio 
Club,  a  Voice  Club,  a  Greek  Club,  and  the  Clef 
and  Colloquium.  These  are  only  some  among  the 
number,  but  they  give  an  idea  of  Smith's  varied 
undergraduate  life,  of  the  many  things  that  keenly 
engage  the  students'  interest. 

The  Gym  is  another  important  part  of  the  girls' 
existence.  They  are  obliged  to  learn  to  swim  dur- 
ing the  Freshman  year,  and  to  take  certain  pre- 
scribed exercises.  Then  there  are  the  crews,  row- 
ing on  Paradise  Pond,  and  lately  a  Float  Day 
has  been  established,  with  all  its  picturesque  fea- 
tures of  decorated  boats  and  singing. 

Campus  Evening  of  Commencement  is  fairy- 
land at  Smith.  It  begins  with  singing,  the  whole 
college  joining  in,  and  later  the  Alumnae,  the  old 
song  leaders  of  the  graduate  classes  who  have 

-j-283-i- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

returned  leading  once  more.  Gradually,  as  the 
singing  goes  on,  the  lanterns,  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  them,  hung  from  every  tree  and  swinging 
in  long  chains,  are  lighted. 

"  In  this  magic  light  you  see  the  girls  frantically 
running  about,  trying  to  get  hold  of  other  mem- 
bers of  their  own  class,  and  then  serenade  the 
other  classes.  If  they  come  across  any  of  the  old 
classes,  seated  in  one  of  the  great  arched  door- 
ways or  on  the  steps  of  one  of  the  cottages,  why, 
they  serenade  them  too.  All  gathered  together 
at  last,  the  four  classes  serenade  the  President. 
The  night  goes  on  and  on,  no  one  is  tired,  every 
one  is  happy." 

Next  we  were  led  to  the  Botanical  Garden  and 
House,  a  lovely  sight  in  this  season  of  flowers. 
In  little  ponds  were  grouped  a  medley  of  water 
plants.  Across  Paradise  Pond  Paradise  Woods 
climbed,  and  way  off  to  the  right  was  Allen  Field 
and  the  Club  House. 

There  were  a  lot  of  smocks  to  be  seen  on  the 
girls  who  were  hurrying  from  one  part  of  the 
campus  to  another,  caught  in  the  busy  college 
life.  These  smocks  have  been  found  to  be  a 
splendid  garment  to  wear  to  morning  chapel. 

"Just  a  yank  or  two,  and  you're  dressed!" 

It  was  expressive. 

"  Isn't  it,"  Sister  wanted  me  to  agree,  "  a  de- 
light to  see  the  simple  dressing  of  all  these  col- 

-*•  284  -*- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

lege  girls.  After  the  overdressed  women  that 
crowd  New  York,  tottering  along  on  those  high 
heels,  these  girls,  in  smocks  and  middies,  with 
tennis  shoes  on  their  feet,  dashing  about  these 
lovely  paths  and  crossing  the  greens,  are  refresh- 
ing. You  get  to  feel,  in  New  York,  that  there 
isn't  a  natural  human  being  left  on  earth." 

Just  at  the  time  we  saw  Smith  she  was  getting 
ready  for  all  her  Class  Day  and  Commencement 
fun,  and  also  for  the  Shakespere  play  the  Seniors 
were  to  give.  Twelfth  Night  had  been  chosen, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  new  ideas  to  be  used  in 
the  scenic  side  of  the  play.  Heavy  falling,  rich 
curtains  of  various  hues  were  to  provide  the  back 
drops,  and  the  rest  of  the  properties  aimed  at 
essential  simplicity.  As  practically  the  whole 
play  was  being  rehearsed,  no  time  could  be  given 
to  elaborate  sets.  And  then,  in  our  colleges  to- 
day, we  find  the  interest  greatest  in  the  newer 
forms  of  art,  of  decoration,  of  acting.  Simplicity 
truly  is  having  its  innings  at  last. 

"How  about  the  war?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"  Smith  takes  the  war  with  a  full  sense  of  her 
responsibilities.  The  Senior  class  has  been  train- 
ing in  several  directions  to  be  ready  to  give  help 
where  it  is  most  needed.  We  have  our  Red  Cross 
and  Nurses  Training  societies,  and  we  have  raised 
thousands  of  dollars  for  the  relief  of  one  or  an- 
other of  the  countries  suffering  under  this  war. 

-1-285-*- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

I  think  the  Seniors  feel  it  to  be  a  privilege  that 
they  are  to  graduate  at  such  a  time  in  the  coun- 
try's history,  when  trained  men  and  women  are 
so  desperately  needed." 

Smith  has  evolved  a  clever  method  of  having 
her  Ivy  Day  parade  orderly  by  instituting  what 
they  call  the  Sophomore  Push  Committee.  There 
is  little  room  on  the  campus  for  the  big  crowds 
that  assemble  to  see  the  Ivy  March,  and  so  this 
line  of  Sophomores  marches  ahead  and  quietly 
but  effectively  clears  the  way.  The  Seniors  are 
usually  dressed  in  white,  the  Juniors  in  colours, 
and  the  Seniors  march  between  Junior  Ushers  to 
the  place  where  the  ivy  is  to  be  planted.  It  makes 
a  delicate  colour  scheme,  full  of  the  spirit  of  youth. 

Smith's  Presidents  have  always  been  men. 
President  Seelye  had  the  college  in  his  hands  from 
two  years  before  it  opened  to  1910.  He  still 
comes  to  the  Commencements,  and  is  greeted 
with  delirious  joy  and  any  amount  of  serenading. 
President  Burton  followed  him,  but  this  is  his 
last  year  there.  Smith  has  been  lucky  in 
having  so  long  a  term  granted  to  her  first  Presi- 
dent. Wellesley  in  the  same  time  had  changed 
Presidents  frequently,  through  death  or  ill  health 
or  other  reasons.  Judging  from  his  accomplish- 
ment during  his  long  term  of  office,  President 
Seelye  was  a  peculiarly  fortunate  choice.  No 
amount  of  discouragement  quelled  his  energy  or 

-a-286-f- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

swerved  him  from  those  principles  to  which  his 
college  was  devoted.  Department  after  depart- 
ment grew  until  it  must  have  larger  quarters,  and 
somehow  these  were  found.  For  instance,  the 
scientific  work  had  presently  to  find  more  room, 
and  Lilly  Hall  was  given  to  the  college  by  Alfred 
T.  Lilly.  Again  the  science  classes  swelled  in 
size,  and  a  new  chemical  building  became  impera- 
tive. One  man  came  forward  with  ten  thousand, 
fifteen  thousand  more  was  raised,  the  college  put 
in  another  fifteen  thousand,  and  a  beautiful  new 
building  was  added  to  Smith's  possessions.  This 
stands  in  the  ground  belonging  to  the  college 
across  Elm  Street,  where  there  are  several  of  the 
houses  for  the  students. 

So  it  went  with  everything  during  that  thirty- 
five  years  under  President  Seelye,  and  so  it  has 
continued  under  President  Burton.  College  Hall, 
with  its  fine  square  tower  and  gabled  facade, 
built  in  the  form  of  an  ell,  is  still  a  handsome  part 
of  Smith.  But  it  must  yield  both  in  beauty  and 
in  size  to  many  a  newer  building.  The  Gym- 
nasium, beautiful  Seelye  Hall,  with  the  fine  round 
tower  that  joins  the  two  wings,  the  Art  Gallery, 
the  John  M.  Greene  Hall,  with  the  Library,  make 
a  magnificent  and  harmonious  group.  Among 
these  the  old  homestead  of  Judge  Dewey,  with  its 
Colonial  columns  and  Doric  simplicity,  falls  in 
charmingly  with  the  general  scheme. 

-+28T-+- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

We  were  told  a  good  deal  about  Smith's  relig- 
ious work.  Her  College  Association  of  Christian 
Workers,  her  Missionary  Association,  the  College 
Settlement  Association.  The  missionary  society 
has  established  a  Chair  in  China,  and  the  College 
Settlement  is  most  practical,  bringing  the  students 
into  close  relation  with  many  of  the  problems 
that  must  be  met  if  our  social  order  is  to  improve 
— is,  for  that  matter,  to  continue. 

"  But  perhaps  the  most  interesting  thing  about 
Smith  is  that  she  was  in  so  much  a  pioneer,"  said 
our  college  friend.  "  She  was  not  a  pioneer  col- 
lege, of  course.  But  she  was  first  to  open  without  a 
preparatory  department.  In  this  every  college  for 
women  worthy  the  name  has  followed  her.  Vassar 
closed  her  preparatory  department  in  1888,  Wel- 
lesley  hers  eight  years  earlier.  Mount  Holyoke 
followed  the  example  in  1898,  and  Byrn  Mawr 
opened  in  1885  without  a  preparatory  department. 
Bryn  Mawr,  after  carefully  studying  the  colleges 
that  had  preceded  her,  decided  that  Smith's  plan 
of  resident  houses  to  hold  from  twenty-five  to 
fifty  students,  each  with  its  own  table  and  sepa- 
rate management,  was  by  far  the  best.  When 
Smith  first  opened  the  papers  of  the  day  used  to 
run  articles  saying  that  the  students  were  mostly 
ill  with  brain  fever  and  nervous  breakdowns, 
owing  to  the  terrific  strain  of  the  curriculum. 
Now  the  other  colleges  have  the  same  system  of 

-?-288-*- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

studies,  with  such  variations  as  is  natural  with  dif- 
ferent Faculties  and  Boards,  but  with  the  same 
high  standards.  As  for  the  students,  if  any  of 
them  have  brain  fever — incidentally  of  course 
there's  no  such  thing  as  brain  fever — they  conceal 
it  under  an  aspect  of  robust  health  that  the  milk- 
maid of  an  earlier  time  might  envy." 

We  happened  at  the  moment  to  be  in  sight  of 
the  tennis  grounds.  They  were  filled  with  flying 
figures  who  swatted  the  balls  with  no  gentle  tap; 
who  ran  and  sprang  with  lithe  ease.  Basket  ball 
too  had  its  active  devotees.  On  the  lake  we  had 
seen  the  slender  boats  slipping  through  the  water, 
pulled  along  by  slim  but  brown  and  strong  young 
arms.  Gymnasium  and  swimming  tank,  each  had 
athletic  young  women  delighting  in  their  healthy 
bodies.  Out  on  Allen  Field  there  would  be 
contests  and  games.  Yet  these  girls,  for  all  their 
vigourous  bodily  exercise,  found  time  to  get  their 
A.B.'s,  to  secure  honours  and  fellowships,  to 
carry  on  with  success  Smith's  fine  intellectual  life. 
There  were  certainly  no  signs  of  brain  fever. 

We  wandered  over  the  campus,  loath  to  go 
from  the  place.  By  us  went  students,  and  every 
one  seemed  to  have  something  different  to  talk 
about.  We  heard  cryptic  words  as  to  "  bacon 
bats  on  the  river  bank."  We  knew  the  river 
meant  the  Connecticut,  but  what  was  a  bacon 
bat?  Laughter  and  talk  next  about  the  hurdy- 

-J-289-J- 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

gurdy  and  the  dancing  under  the  apple  trees,  and 
the  girls  who  were  to  carry  the  Ivy  Chain.  We 
heard  too  the  immortal  topic  of  Man  under  dis- 
cussion : 

"  Maybe  my  Prom  man  wasn't  so  much.  But 
I  had  a  good  time  Garden  Party  night.  And 
wasn't  it  lovely  down  by  the  fountain,  with  the 
lanterns?  I  think  that's  one  of  the  prettiest 
things  we  have." 

"  Say,  girls,  jump  into  your  bloomers  and  come 
out  to  Allen  this  P.  M." 

"It's  settled  that  the  Seniors  are  to  wear  cap 
and  gown  when  they  receive  their  degrees ! " 

These  and  other  scraps  reached  us,  letting  in 
little  gleams  of  the  undergraduate  life  upon  our 
understanding.  Slowly  we  made  our  way  back 
to  College  Hall,  and  stepped  out  on  the  street. 
We  had  left  the  College  Campus.  But  we  found 
that  we  had  not  left  the  college. 

For  Northampton  is  more  completely  a  college 
town  than  any  other  we  had  yet  seen.  Since 
more  than  half  the  Smith  girls  live  in  it,  scat- 
tered among  its  charming  houses  in  one  or  two 
rooms,  according  to  their  demands  and  their 
means,  and  since  its  streets  and  squares  have 
almost  the  look  of  collegiate  beauty  that  adheres 
to  a  campus,  you  cannot  shake  off  the  feeling 
that  you  are  still  within  the  college  precincts. 
Northampton  streets  are  charmingly  irregular, 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

and  were  it  not  that  they  are  well  paved,  you 
might  almost  call  them  roads,  so  well  do  they 
hold  their  rural  character.  New  England  is  the 
home  of  fine  elms  and  noble  maples,  but  here 
in  Northampton  she  outdoes  herself. 

After  we  had  seen  a  little  of  the  old  village 
we  began  to  feel  that  life  there  was  just  one  school 
after  another.  Any  street  you  took  was  almost 
certain  to  lead  you  to  a  girls'  preparatory,  or  a 
public  library  (there  are  two  of  them),  or  to  an 
agricultural  institute,  or  a  school  for  the  deaf 
and  dumb,  or  to  the  people's  institute  or  some- 
where else  of  an  instructive  or  a  charitable  nature. 
And  each  of  these  places  was  attractive,  charming 
under  huge  trees  and  green  with  climbing  ivy, 
usually  having  spacious  grounds  that  aid  in  giving 
Northampton  its  look  of  a  park  turned  by  some 
happy  chance  into  a  town. 

"  I  should  think  the  girls  who  have  spent  four 
years  in  such  an  environment  must  find  it  hard 
to  settle  down  in  any  that  is  less  pleasing,"  I 
remarked,  as  we  waited  for  our  automobile 
friends,  who  had  promised  to  take  us  to  Williams- 
town.  "When  I  contrast  Northampton  with 
some  of  the  Middle  West  towns,  or  the  common- 
place manufacturing  cities  we  have  reared  in  such 
plenty  all  over  our  fair  land,  I  ache  to  think  of 
having  to  live  in  one  of  them  after  having  lived 
here.  The  whole  place,  from  the  Connecticut 


SMITH  AND  NORTHAMPTON 

River  to  Mount  Holyoke  there,  with  its  superb 
view,  which  you  haven't  seen,  but  which  I  climbed 
to  a  few  years  ago, — and  it's  worth  a  far  longer 
climb, — is  the  perfect  ideal  of  a  college  town.  It's 
old  and  gracious  and  beautiful,  set  down  between 
river  and  meadow  and  mountain  .  .  .  and  in- 
stead of  the  time-worn  theory  that  there  must  be 
a  constant  feud  between  town  and  gown,  North- 
ampton and  Smith  are  clamped  together  by  every 
sort  of  tie." 

"  Have  you  seen  everything? "  our  friends 
wanted  to  know,  as  they  returned  from  their  own 
forth-faring,  and  we  got  into  the  car. 

"  We've  seen  a  lot,"  said  Sister.  "  But  you'd 
have  to  live  four  years  in  the  place  to  get  hold 
of  it — and  that,  by  the  way,  is  the  trouble  in 
seeing  any  college.  They  can't  really  be  seen — 
they  have  to  be  lived." 


292 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Williams  of  the  Mountains 

GOING  over  Hoosac  Mountain  is  one  of  the  ac- 
complishments that  makes  you  realise  the  auto- 
mobile has  come  to  stay. 

Whenever  I  had  gone  to  Williams  before  it 
had  been  through  the  tunnel,  and  that  experience, 
as  a  professor  phrased  it,  is  "  quite  other."  Going 
over  Hoosac  has  elements  of  the  glorious,  but 
going  through  it  you  simply  choke  and  wish  there 
were  no  mountains.  On  this  particular  morning 
we  loved  mountains,  and  we  saw  them  all  around 
us  as  we  mounted  our  own.  In  the  turns  and 
twists  we  took  we  were  presented  with  every  side 
of  innumerable  views,  and  practically  each  of  these 
views  had  a  mountain  in  it  somewhere. 

On  the  way  to  Williamstown,  after  finishing 
with  Hoosac,  you  reach  North  Adams,  the  nearest 
thing  to  a  real  town  within  reach  of  the  college. 
Here  the  boys  come  to  stir  things  up  when  the 
routine  of  college  life  palls  upon  their  spirits  and 
when  there  is  no  time  to  make  the  fifty  miles 
to  Albany.  North  Adams  is  a  busy,  crowded, 
hustling  sort  of  place  that  may  have  its  beauty 
spots,  but  which  does  not  show  them  to  the  casual 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

tourist  on  his  way  from  Hoosac  Mountain  to 
Williamstown.  We  sped  through  it  without 
stopping,  ate  up  the  few  miles  that  remained, 
along  which  huge  trolley  cars  boomed  and 
screeched  at  intervals,  and  rolled  up  to  the  Grey- 
lock  Hotel,  on  beautiful  Main  Street,  with  ap- 
petites that  fairly  shouted. 

Williams  is  in  a  valley  with  a  ring  of  mountains 
circling  it,  the  highest  in  the  state,  Greylock,  a 
noble  bulk,  being  only  a  few  miles  away,  and 
offering  a  glorious  tramp  for  Mountain  Day, 
a  college  holiday  occurring  some  fine  day  in 
October,  when  the  forests  are  at  the  height  of 
their  autumnal  beauty.  Since  this  is  a  movable 
feast,  notice  is  given  on  the  previous  afternoon, 
at  about  four  o'clock,  by  ringing  the  chimes  of 
the  Chapel.  Next  morning,  bright  and  early, 
groups  and  couples  set  off  for  a  whole  day  in 
the  open,  and  though  there  is  many  another  de- 
lightful climb,  Greylock  comes  first. 

I  had  been  at  Williams  on  Mountain  Day,  and 
seen  the  Freshman  start  away  to  begin  to  make 
their  acquaintance  with  the  Berkshires  and  with 
each  other,  and  watched  them  drifting  back  at 
the  end  of  the  day,  tired,  happy,  friendly,  full  of 
talk  over  the  day's  incidents.  And  it  had  always 
seemed  as  though  this  were  one  of  the  best  holi- 
days any  college  had  instituted.  In  Yale  it  used 
to  be  the  thing  for  the  Freshmen  to  climb  the 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

two  Rocks,  and  not  to  consider  themselves  true 
Yale  men  till  that  was  done.  But  the  thing  was 
never  given  the  dignity  of  a  college  rite,  and  it 
has  almost  disappeared  to-day,  as  one  of  the 
younger  graduates  told  us,  deprecating  the  fact. 
It  will  not  disappear  at  Williams — year  after 
year  bands  of  young  men  will  follow  the  trails 
on  East  Mountain,  Greylock  and  the  other  slopes 
and  peaks  of  that  delectable  valley,  finding  each 
other  more  swiftly  than  they  could  do  in  a  week 
of  routine  college  life,  and  discovering  that  there 
is  no  keener  joy  for  the  healthy  body  than  that 
found  in  arduous  exercise  in  the  open  air,  with 
the  brooks  running  beside  the  climbing  paths, 
and  the  blood  dancing  in  the  veins. 

'  Those,  at  least,  are  my  sentiments,"  I  re- 
marked to  Sister,  after  expatiating  to  her  on  the 
above  theme.  We  had  been  sitting  on  the 
veranda,  watching  the  idle  stream  of  life  along 
Main  Street.  Main  Street  at  Williams  is  a 
matter  of  double  rows  of  fine  trees  and  parking, 
so  that  there  is  more  grass  than  there  is  road  or 
sidewalk.  It  is  so  wide  that  right  in  the  middle 
of  its  western  stretch  the  Field  Memorial  Park 
is  comfortably  accommodated,  and  at  one  point 
West  College  steps  right  out  into  it  in  the 
friendliest  way  imaginable.  West  College,  built 
when  the  college  was  founded,  in  1790,  is  the 
oldest  of  the  buildings,  and  is  used  for  a  dormi- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

tory.  One  envies  the  boys  who  live  there,  for 
though  there  isn't  a  spot  in  Williamstown  that 
doesn't  give  you  a  twinge  of  regret  when  you 
realise  that  it  isn't  yours  for  good,  to  live  in  and 
stay  in,  yet  that  old  college,  with  its  view  across 
the  lovely  street  to  the  Thompson  Chapel,  whose 
white  stone  Gothic  tower  points  its  exquisite  finials 
above  the  arching  elms,  while  below,  the  crossing 
paths  draw  geometric  patterns  through  the  lawns, 
that  college  building  seems  to  have  the  best  of  it. 

Williams,  for  all  it  is  such  a  child  of  the 
mountains,  was  founded  by  a  sailor.  To  be  sure 
he  had  given  up  seafaring  for  a  soldier's  life— 
and  death — before  his  fortune  came  to  do  its 
work  here.  He  died  in  the  French  and  Indian 
War  of  1755,  a  Colonel  under  Sir  William 
Johnson,  shot  on  a  reconnoitering  tour  near  Lake 
George,  at  the  age  of  forty.  In  his  will,  made 
just  before  going  into  battle,  he  had  left  pro- 
vision for  the  founding  of  a  free  school  in  what 
was  then  West  Hoosac.  The  settlement  was 
to  be  called  Williamstown,  after  him,  Ephraim 
Williams.  The  rest  was  silence. 

It  took  the  trustees  thirty-five  years  to  make 
a  start,  and  to  build  West  College.  Next  year 
the  Free  School  was  opened.  This  school  was  in 
two  parts,  one  entirely  free  for  the  elementary 
branches,  and  a  grammar  school  that  charged  a 
fee  of  thirty-five  shillings  a  year,  perhaps  as  a 

H-296-?- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

reminder  of  the  wasted  years  gone  by.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  the  grammar  school  proved  extremely 
popular.  The  trustees  decided  to  do  something 
bigger,  and  in  1793  they  secured  a  charter  from 
the  Legislature,  and  Williams  College  was  a 
fact. 

Williams  has  the  distinction  of  issuing  the  first 
college  catalogue  ever  printed  in  this  country. 
This  event  befell  in  1795,  and  three  years  later 
the  continued  success  of  Williams  induced  the 
building  of  East  College.  This  was  burned  in 
1841,  but  rebuilt  the  next  year,  and  with  Berk- 
shire, Fayerweather  and  Currier  Halls  it  now 
forms  the  beautiful  Berkshire  Quadrangle.  All 
these  are  dormitories,  and  Currier  contains  also 
the  college  commons,  with  a  charming  dining 
room,  and  a  club  room  for  the  members  of  the 
Commons.  The  campus  on  which  these  buildings 
face,  together  with  the  heating  plant  that  closes 
one  end,  is  terraced  up  from  the  street,  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  buildings,  and  the  effect  is  very  good. 

Williamstown  is  called  the  Missionary  College, 
and  in  Mission  Park,  a  lovely  ten-acre  plot  of 
trees,  shrubs,  carefully  tended  lawn  and  clamber- 
ing vines,  there  is  a  stone  shaft  called  the  Hay- 
stack Monument.  At  the  spot  where  it  stands 
there  was  once,  so  tradition  says,  a  haystack. 
There,  in  1806,  Samuel  John  Mills,  a  Divinity 
student,  held  a  prayer  meeting,  in  which  he  begged 

-i-297-e- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

for  missionaries  who  would  be  willing  to  carry 
the  Gospel  to  the  heathen.  This  was  the  be- 
ginning of  the  entire  American  Missionary  move- 
ment. Williams  has  continued  to  graduate  men 
who  have  gone  into  missionary  work,  and  now 
and  then,  around  the  old  monument,  there  will 
be  a  gathering  while  some  one  or  more  returned 
missionaries  tell  of  their  experiences  and  ask  for 
recruits.  Strange  looking  men,  some  of  the  older 
ones,  with  long  beards  and  spare  frames  that 
witness  to  hardships  endured  and  dangers  suf- 
fered for  their  cause,  and  strange  the  tales  they 
relate  of  coral  reefed  islands  and  tropic  forests, 
of  Chinese  villages  and  Indian  huts. 

The  best  way  to  get  an  idea  of  Williams  is  to 
walk  along  Main  Street  from  the  Grey  lock  to 
the  Methodist  Church.  First  you  pass  the  houses 
of  the  professors  and  the  fraternity  houses,  facing 
each  other  amicably  across  that  wide  expanse, 
with  spreading  lawns  encompassing  them  and 
many  flowers  blooming  close  to  the  houses.  West 
College  comes  next,  with  two  dormitories  near 
it,  while  opposite  are  the  President's  attractive 
house,  the  Congregational  Church  and  Hopkins 
Hall.  This  was  built  in  1890  and  remodelled  in 
1909,  and  is  one  of  those  florid  looking  stone  struc- 
tures that  leave  you  entirely  uninterested.  They 
are  like  some  people;  prosperous  and  efficient  in 
appearance,  but  dull  and  commonplace  as  to 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

personality.  A  few  steps  beyond  on  the  same 
side  of  the  street  as  Hopkins,  which  is  the  seat 
of  the  offices  and  Faculty  room  and  the  general 
business  centre  of  the  college,  is  the  charming 
Thompson  Chapel.  As  the  doors  were  open, 
Sister  and  I  walked  in  and  sat  down  for  a  moment 
in  the  cool,  spacious  interior,  with  its  upsweep 
of  pillar  and  arch,  the  dark  pews  making  a  strong 
note  in  the  softness  of  the  general  effect.  It  is 
a  beautiful  place,  and  the  chimes  that  sound  so 
sweetly  give  it  the  perfect  collegiate  finish  one 
asks  of  a  Chapel  in  such  a  place. 

On  up  the  stately  street,  stopping  to  give  a 
glance  at  the  Lasell  Gymnasium,  with  a  dome 
supported  on  arches,  opposite  the  Chapel,  to 
Griffin  Hall,  one  of  the  lecture  halls,  which,  built 
in  1828,  was  moved  here  and  remodelled  in  1904. 
It  is  a  charming  old  thing,  on  simple  lines,  with 
a  graceful  cupola.  Another  building  in  much 
the  same  style  is  Jesup  Hall  on  the  way  to 
Grace  Court  and  the  Laboratories,  south  of  Main 
Street.  Before  the  Laboratories,  modern  build- 
ings in  every  sense,  there  runs  a  fence.  It  does 
not  look  comfortable,  but  it  is  in  a  way  a  seat 
of  honour,  or  at  least  of  achievement.  For  you 
must  have  passed  your  Freshman  year  before 
you  are  allowed  to  sit  upon  it. 

North  of  Main  Street,  you  can  follow  de- 
lightful ways  to  other  houses  given  over  to  the 

-e-299-?- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

professors,  and  here  is  the  Williams  Inn,  an  old 
home  rather  than  a  mere  inn.  Come  away,  back 
toward  Main  Street  and  you  pass  one  of  the 
newest  additions  to  the  college,  Grace  Hall, 
with  columns  and  pediment  dignifying  the  fine 
Georgian  body.  This  is  the  auditorium,  and 
close  to  it  is  another  new  building,  Williams 
Hall,  a  long  and  solidly  built  dormitory  that  has 
room  for  close  upon  a  hundred  men. 

Williams  has  no  regular  campus  or  yard,  so 
called.  You  find  that  the  whole  valley  floor 
on  which  the  college  stands,  reaching  from  the 
village  proper,  where  the  shops  and  such  business 
as  is  run  there  find  a  home,  out  to  the  open 
slopes  and  links,  the  pastures  and  woods,  are 
campus.  Each  street  and  path  goes  through  a 
park,  each  building  has  its  pleasant  lawns  or 
terraces.  In  summer  the  place  becomes  a  summer 
home  of  the  rich,  who  hire  the  professors'  houses 
or  have  built  others  for  themselves,  and  who  fill 
the  hotel  and  the  inn.  Pittsfield  is  but  twenty 
miles  away,  and  fine  roads  lead  to  all  the  loveliest 
of  Massachusetts'  hill  and  mountain  scenery.  As 
for  the  trails  that  start  almost  in  the  centre  of 
the  village,  they  take  you  to  glens  and  outlooks, 
to  rounded  peaks  and  silent  valleys,  clothed  thick 
with  forest  or  rough  with  broken  rocks,  pic- 
turesque as  anything  to  be  found  in  the  East. 

Williams,  in  its  undergraduate  life,  lives  in  the 
H-  300  -*- 


Thompson  Chapel,  whose  Stone  Tower  Points 

its  Exquisite  White  Finials  Above  the 

Arching  Elms 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

dormitories  and  the  fraternity  houses.  It  is  thor- 
oughly occupied,  and  no  man  can  slip  through  be- 
cause he  is  a  first-class  athlete  or  if  he  believes  that 
college  is  a  place  in  which  life  is  simply  active 
enjoyment  of  leisure  for  amusement. 

As  soon  as  the  Freshman  arrives  things  begin 
to  happen  to  him.  After  getting  settled  in  his 
room,  he  begins  to  go  to  Jesup  Hall,  where  a 
large  part  of  the  undergraduate  activities  find  a 
home.  Here  the  classes  hold  their  meetings,  and 
here  the  Freshman  can  confer  with  the  chairman 
of  the  Williams  College  Association,  and  begin  to 
get  hep  to  the  future  before  him.  Presently  he 
is  called  out  to  engage  in  the  great  tug  of  war, 
that  marks  the  test  of  strength  between  the 
Freshman  and  Sophomore  classes.  Fortunately, 
to  give  this  tug  a  dramatic  effect,  Williams 
is  conveniently  adjacent  to  the  Green  River.  On 
one  bank  the  Sophs  are  arrayed,  on  the  opposite 
one  the  Freshies.  Naturally  the  idea  is  to  get 
the  opposing  side  into  the  nice  chilly  stream. 
And  at  the  crack  of  a  pistol  fired  by  a  Senior, 
the  scrambling  begins.  It  is  worth  watching,  if 
only  for  the  extreme  reluctance  to  get  wet  dis- 
played by  every  tugger  on  the  rope. 

Another  test  of  strength  between  these  two 
enemy  classes  is  the  pushball  contest — first  the 
pull  and  then  the  push. 

Presently  the  rushing  by  the  fraternity  houses 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

begins,  safeguarded  by  a  carefully  thought-out  set 
of  rules  and  regulations.  In  the  meanwhile 
Mountain  Day  has  come  and  gone.  Freshmen 
by  this  time  have  learned  that  they  can't  wear 
the  nice  swishy  corduroy  trousers  that  decorate 
the  upperclass  legs,  nor  so  much  as  a  streak  of 
purple,  Williams'  colour.  They  can,  and  must, 
wear  their  little  caps,  however.  But  then  they 
are  strictly  forbidden  to  put  on  a  sheepskin  or 
a  mackinaw  coat.  Corduroy  and  moleskin  are 
also  forbidden. 

Yet  it  is  clearly  provided  that  they  are  never 
to  be  seen  on  the  street  without  a  coat.  But 
they  must  be  mighty  choosy  in  the  material. 
Possibly  these  sartorial  difficulties  console  them 
for  the  fact  that  they  are  not  permitted  to  dance 
at  the  Greylock  nor  to  be  seen  smoking  on  the 
street.  Nor  are  they  ever  to  be  seen  in  a  front 
row  seat  at  Jesup  Hall  or  the  Gymnasium,  and 
even  in  North  Adams  they  have  to  keep  in  the 
rear.  Spring  Street,  too,  has  its  inhibitions.  It 
is  the  street  leading  toward  Grace  Court  and  the 
Laboratories,  and  has  convenient  benches  on  it. 
Yes,  we  guessed  it — for  this  information  was 
being  conveyed  to  us  by  an  earnest  Sophomore- 
Freshmen  must  not  sit  upon  those  benches.  Also, 
each  Freshman  is  begged  to  show  a  proper  defer- 
ence to  upperclassmen. 

'What,  let  me  inquire,  is  a  proper  deference? " 
-?~302-e- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

It  was  I  who  wanted  to  know.  For  opinions 
might  vary  a  good  deal — particularly  the  opinions 
of  the  Freshman  and  the  upperclassman.  Was 
he  supposed  to  give  a  sweeping  bow  in  passing, 
or  merely  to  get  off  the  pavement?  Did  he  stand 
at  attention,  or  was  goose-stepping  demanded? 

"Oh,  well,  just — you  know  ..."  was  the 
response.  We  kept  a  lookout  as  we  walked  about, 
but  it  was  so  late  in  the  year  that  Freshmen  had 
practically  ceased  to  be  Freshmen.  Their  caps 
had  long  gone,  though  the  corduroys  had  not 
arrived.  Perhaps  the  deference  stage  only  lasts 
a  few  months,  until  acquaintance  has  been  made. 
At  least,  we  could  see  no  signs  of  it. 

"And,  of  course,  no  Freshman  must  spin  a 
top  in  front  of  Eddie's." 

That  was  final.    It  had  a  ring  to  it. 

"Who  thinks  them  up? "  asked  Sister. 

But  there  she  struck  a  mystery. 

Along  after  the  second  football  game  the  Fresh- 
men engage  in  a  parade.  Parades  are  not  the 
happy  occurrences  of  any  and  all  occasions,  as  at 
Brown,  but  they  occur,  and  this  one,  with  each 
fledgling  student  expressing  his  sense  of  humour 
through  the  garments  upon  him,  is  something  all 
Williamstown  turns  out  to  see.  The  parade 
marches  from  the  Gym  to  the  Greylock,  and 
there  the  chosen  stars  give  a  vaudeville. 

"And  they  get  off  some  pretty  good  stunts," 
-i-303-*- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

admitted  the  Sophomore,  who,  after  all,  had  once 
been  a  Freshman. 

In  May  the  baseball  season  is  in  full  swing, 
and  after  the  Amherst  game  the  four  classes 
assemble  on  the  Laboratory  campus,  where  each 
class  sings  two  songs,  the  original  work  of  its 
members,  or  of  some  one  or  two  of  them.  This 
is  the  famous  Interclass  Singing  contest,  one  of 
Williams'  dearest  traditions.  The  songs  may  or 
may  not  be  good,  but  to  hear  the  boys  singing 
out  there  with  all  the  fervour  and  conviction  on 
earth,  and  with  the  fresh  and  sweet  voices  of 
youth,  is  something  distinctly  worth  while. 

The  students  have  their  own  fire  brigade,  with 
full  apparatus,  and  are  ready  to  co-operate  with 
the  Williamstown  regulars  whenever  a  fire  breaks 
out. 

Among  the  societies  that  are  not  Greek  Letter 
are  the  literary  groups,  publishers  of  the  Lit. 
and  the  Record,  the  latter  a  tri-weekly,  and  the 
Purple  Cow,  where  humour  finds  its  home.  There 
is  also  a  small  club  of  upperclassmen,  the  Pipe 
and  Quill,  a  most  exclusive  organisation  of  men 
interested  in  the  English  classics.  Lectures  for 
this  group  are  given  by  members  of  the  Faculty, 
and  speakers  of  renown  from  outside  the  college 
limits.  A  Senior  society  that  is  not  secret,  and 
that  exists  for  the  purpose  of  upholding  the 
Williams  spirit,  and  of  furthering  in  every  way 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  highest  interests  of  the  college,  is  the  Gar- 
goyle, now  twenty -two  years  old.  There  is  much 
of  honour  in  being  a  Gargoyle  man,  the  maximum 
membership  amounting  to  twenty,  who  are  chosen 
publicly  after  the  ball  game  on  Decoration  Day. 
Juniors  only  are  eligible  to  such  choice.  But 
Williams  has  its  own  ideas  as  to  the  limit  of  the 
Freshman  or  the  Junior  ranking.  A  Freshman 
remains  such  until  he  has  passed  the  required 
Gym  and  Hygiene  courses,  and  a  man  is  reck- 
oned as  a  Junior  by  the  Gargoyle  if  he  has  not 
more  than  fifty-five  semester  hours  to  pass  before 
graduation.  It  is  on  their  working  record  that 
men  are  chosen  by  Gargoyle. 

No  college  is  complete  without  its  Dramatics. 
Williams',  called  the  Cap  and  Bells,  gives  two 
plays  a  year,  if  not  more.  In  the  fall  the  inten- 
tion is  to  amuse,  and  the  plays  chosen  are  of  the 
type  that  is  supposed  to  interest  the  tired  business 
man.  But  in  the  spring  the  student's  fancy  is 
turned  toward  serious  things,  and  the  play  reflects 
this  mood.  There  are  always  trips  to  various 
cities,  where  a  good  time  is  had  by  all,  including 
the  audiences. 

Once  at  least  the  part  of  the  leading  lady  in 
one  of  the  plays,  I  think  we  were  told  it  was 
"  A  Pair  of  Green  Stockings,"  was  taken  by  a 
girl.  Unbelievable  in  college  dramatics.  But 
this  is  how  it  happened: 

-e-305-4- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

There  was  just  one  man  at  the  college  who 
could  take  the  part,  and  take  it  he  did,  splendidly. 
But  the  day  before  the  performance  was  to 
be  given  he  was  called  home  by  an  imperative 
summons.  What  was  to  be  done?  The  seats 
were  sold,  everything  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expec- 
tation, and  no  one  in  Cap  and  Bells  knew  the 
part,  nor,  knowing,  could  have  played  it.  It 
was  a  frantic  time. 

Then  some  one  recalled  that  Mount  Holyoke 
had  given  the  play  only  a  short  time  before,  and 
that  the  girl  who  had  taken  the  lead  had  been  par- 
ticularly delightful.  Would  it  be  possible?  Could 
it  be  managed?  The  Dean  was  dragged  into  the 
question,  every  one  who  could  give  a  suggestion 
was  pressed  into  service,  and  at  last  Mount 
Holyoke  was  approached. 

So  there  was  one  woman  in  the  cast  that  night, 
and  most  successfully  she  played  her  part,  re- 
ceiving an  ovation  when  she  made  her  first  appear- 
ance that  almost  swept  the  roof  away.  One  can 
imagine  with  what  snap  and  zest  the  play  went, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  treat  to  hear  the  story 
of  it  all  as  told  to  the  rest  of  Mount  Holyoke's 
girls  when  the  heroine  of  the  occasion  got  back  to 
that  college. 

There  was  drilling  going  on  here,  though  not 
rery  many  of  the  students  had  left  college  to 
join  any  military  unit.  But  they  were  getting 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

ready  to  go  if  called,  learning  to  march  and  the 
manual  of  arms  and  all  the  preliminary  work  of 
the  soldier,  in  so  far  as  it  could  be  managed 
without  interfering  too  seriously  with  college 
work. 

"  We  want  the  men  to  finish  here  before  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  go  to  the  trenches,"  said 
one  in  authority,  with  whom  we  spoke.  "  On  the 
whole  we  have  held  the  classes  pretty  well  to- 
gether. The  drilling  is  good  for  them,  but  they 
have  a  task  here  that  is  important,  and  that  they 
ought  not  to  drop  unless  they  have  to  do  so.  That 
time  is  not  yet  here." 

Williams  is  another  of  our  colleges  that  has 
instituted  the  Honour  System,  first  imagined  as 
a  sane  and  fine  manner  to  manage  young  men  by 
Thomas  Jefferson,  in  the  college  that  had  been 
first  on  our  list.  Here  its  earliest  use  was  in 
1896.  A  committee  made  up  of  four  Seniors, 
three  Juniors,  two  Sophomores  and  one  Freshman 
has  charge  of  all  cases  that  may  be  suspected 
of  violation  of  the  rules,  and  in  case  of  such 
violation  the  penalty  is  expulsion  for  any  stu- 
dent not  a  Freshman.  A  Freshman  is  sus- 
pended. 

Since  1914  there  has  been  a  Student  Council, 
with  powers  similar  to  those  we  had  found  exer- 
cised elsewhere.  Williams  has  been  a  bit  late 
getting  to  these  things,  but  now  they  run  as 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

smoothly  as  though  she  had  never  been  without 
them. 

Williams  also  has  its  Outing  Club,  organised 
in  1914,  and  now  joining  with  Dartmouth  in 
various  activities.  It  works  both  in  summer  and 
winter,  and  there  are  separate  leaders  for  the 
different  interests.  There  are  trail  markers, 
hunters,  fishers,  snowshoers  and  ski  runners 
in  the  club,  which  is  rapidly  catching  the  interest 
of  the  college.  Last  winter  there  was  a  carnival, 
and  next  season  will  have  another.  Like  Dart- 
mouth, Williams  finds  that  her  sons  take  easily 
to  winter  frolicking,  and  that  only  a  beginning 
in  enjoying  winter  sports  has  so 'far  been  made. 
'  There  is  corking  skiing  all  round  here,"  said 
the  student  who  had  helped  us  in  so  far  as  was 
possible  to  get  a  notion  of  the  undergraduates' 
Williams.  '  These  mountains  that  come  right  up 
to  the  campus,  for  that's  pretty  near  what  they 
do,  are  full  of  the  finest  kind  of  ground  for  skiing. 
Why,  Dartmouth  has  to  go  miles  for  what's  at 
our  front  door! " 

Weston  Field  is  the  college  Athletic  Field,  with 
cinder  track,  football  and  baseball  grounds  and 
a  field  house.  Here  the  intercollegiate  games  are 
played.  On  what  is  called  the  Old  Campus,  lying 
between  Main  Street  and  the  Field,  there  are 
grounds  for  the  interclass  teams  to  play,  and  for 
practice  work,  and  there  is  a  baseball  cage. 

-+308-?- 


WILLIAMS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

In  fact,  Williams  has  provided  very  thoroughly 
for  the  health  and  the  amusement,  as  well  as 
for  the  working  hours  of  her  students.  Since  it 
is  clearly  the  habit  of  colleges  and  universities  to 
choose  beautiful  situations,  she  is  not  peculiar  in 
the  site  she  has  found  for  herself,  or  rather,  which 
Colonel  Williams  selected  for  her.  It  is  ex- 
traordinarily lovely,  to  be  sure,  cupped  in  its 
circling  hills  and  so  bowered  with  great  trees  that 
it  looks  more  like  a  forest  than  a  college  when 
you  look  down  upon  it  from  one  of  those  friendly 
surrounding  mountains. 

Years  ago,  on  a  fall  day,  I  had  walked  up 
Greylock  to  the  Hopper,  and  had  finally  got  to 
the  top,  and  stayed  there  for  the  night,  in  the 
little  rest  house  where  they  give  you  food  and 
a  bed.  I  had  come  back  in  the  morning,  starting 
very  early,  and  when  I  first  looked  down  at 
Williamstown  it  was  hidden  under  billows  of 
fleecy  mist,  which  gradually  broke  and  vanished 
away,  leaving  here  and  there  a  long  white  streamer 
behind  them,  like  the  veil  from  some  fleeing  prin- 
cess. Never  shall  I  forget  the  loveliness  of  that 
view,  with  the  silvery  green  trees  faintly  burning 
into  yellow  and  red,  the  houses  and  stately  college 
halls  gradually  showing  themselves,  the  sloping 
hills  and  fields,  all  mysterious  in  the  haze  that 
still  remained,  looking  as  though  new-created,  half 
unreal. 

-i-309-i- 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Vassar 

THE  story  of  the  founding  of  Vassar  is  really  the 
history  of  a  man's  soul. 

For  more  than  sixty  years  Matthew  Vassar 
struggled  to  make  a  fortune.  He  came  from 
England  when  a  little  boy,  and  went  with  his 
family  to  a  farm  near  Poughkeepsie.  Here  he 
grew  up  while  the  farming  turned  to  a  brewery 
business,  and  moved  into  town.  Under  the 
rule  of  a  severe  father,  headstrong  and  quick- 
tempered, the  boy  was  given  practically  no 
instruction,  hardly  knowing  more  than  to  read 
and  .write,  and  these  with  difficulty.  He  was 
supposed  to  work  for  his  keep,  and  to  work 
hard.  Presently  he  was  apprenticed  by  his  father 
to  a  tanner  for  seven  years,  but  just  before  the 
articles  were  signed  he  ran  away  from  home  with 
his  mother's  connivance,  she  walking  with  him  as 
far  as  the  village  on  the  river  from  which  he  was 
to  be  ferried  to  the  opposite  shore,  parting  from 
her  boy  with  tears. 

His  worldly  possessions  were  six  shillings  and 
a  bundle  wrapped  up  in  a  bandana  handker- 
chief. But  before  the  day  was  out  he  had  work 


VASSAR 

with  a  farmer  and  small  shopkeeper,  and  three 
years  later  was  given  a  salary  of  three  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  so  satisfactory  was  the  work  he 
did.  He  left  then  for  a  better  paying  position, 
but  was  presently  called  by  his  father  to  come 
home  and  take  care  of  the  books  of  the  brewery, 
now  doing  a  fine  business. 

Things  seemed  going  well,  but  a  fire  destroyed 
the  brewery  and  ruined  Matthew's  father  as  well 
as  indirectly  causing  his  older  brother's  death. 

This  happened  in  1811.  The  next  year  Mat- 
thew Vassar  started  in  to  make  his  own  way  in 
business.  He  was  twenty  years  old.  He  hired 
part  of  an  old  dye  house,  and  began  brewing 
ale.  Then  he  opened  the  first  oyster  and  ale 
house  in  Poughkeepsie.  He  also  got  married. 

All  day  long  he  worked.  Brewing  his  ale, 
selling  it  to  customers,  selling  the  grain  that  had 
been  used  to  make  the  drink  by  hawking  it 
through  the  streets,  and  serving  till  midnight  in 
his  little  restaurant. 

That  was  his  life  for  more  than  thirty  years, 
with  a  constantly  increasing  success  and  ever- 
growing wealth.  New  breweries  had  to  be  built, 
and  in  time  many  men  were  working  in  his 
employ.  By  1845  fortune  had  come. 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  no  signs  to 
show  that  the  short,  stout  little  gentleman,  with 
the  large,  well-shaped  head  and  the  Napoleonic 


VASSAR 

profile,  as  the  silhouette  cut  at  the  time  reveals 
him,  had  anything  but  the  instinct  for  business 
and  saving  (he  grudged  the  spending  of  a  penny 
that  would  not  show  solid  value  received),  in  the 
makeup  of  his  character. 

And  now  comes  the  moment  when  the  idea  for 
Vassar  was  born,  and  when  the  dormant  soul  of 
the  man  began  to  assert  itself.  It  was  a  big 
soul,  and  it  was  satisfied  only  with  a  great 
accomplishment. 

He  went  to  Europe  on  what  was  probably  the 
first  vacation  he  ever  took.  There  he  visited 
Guy's  Hospital,  a  charitable  institution,  and  there 
the  idea  of  using  his  money  for  some  charitable 
enterprise  struck  him.  A  niece  of  his  in  Pough- 
keepsie  was  teaching  a  small  school,  which  later 
developed  into  "  a  female  seminary,"  and  it  was 
in  talks  with  this  niece  that  the  conception  of 
founding  a  college  for  women  first  broke  upon 
his  mind. 

But  it  was  a  man,  Milo  P.  Jewett,  who  did 
most  of  the  hard  work  connected  with  getting 
the  thing  focused.  It  was  he  who  suggested  "  a 
college  for  young  women  which  shall  be  to  them 
what  Yale  and  Harvard  are  to  young  men." 

There  were  scattered  schools  and  what  Dr. 
Jewett  termed  "  so-called  colleges "  for  women 
in  existence,  but  there  was  no  true  endowed 
college. 

-i-312-f- 


VASSAR 

Probably  if  there  had  been  no  Dr.  Jewett 
there  would  have  been  no  Vassar  to-day.  The 
brewer's  fortune  would  have  been  scattered  among 
a  number  of  small  benefactions,  a  school  here,  a 
library  there,  an  asylum  or  hospital.  There  was 
plenty  of  opposition  to  the  scheme,  not  only 
from  Mr.  Vassar's  family  but  from  many 
outsiders.  But  Dr.  Jewett  worked  unceasingly 
for  the  purpose  that  had  caught  his  imagina- 
tion, and  held  the  Founder's  interest  to  the 
original  conception — "  The  first  grand  perma- 
nent endowed  Female  College  in  the  United 
States." 

In  1861  the  charter  was  granted,  and  the  first 
building  was  staked  out  on  the  day  when  Fort 
Sumter  fell. 

Through  the  four  years  of  the  Civil  War  the 
building  of  Vassar  went  forward.  Her  President 
was  appointed,  naturally  no  other  than  Dr. 
Jewett.  Her  Trustees  were  chosen,  and  Dr. 
Jewett  was  sent  to  Europe  to  study  the  best 
methods  of  instruction.  He  came  back  with  a 
splendid  curriculum,  broad  as  any  yet  known, 
with  great  plans  for  a  first-class  equipment, 
including  an  art  gallery  and  library,  great  en- 
dowments, scientific  apparatus;  all  this  in  1863! 
He  insisted  that  the  college  must  fulfil  expecta- 
tions by  opening  in  the  following  year,  and 
pressed  all  his  plans  with  the  enthusiasm  and 

-i-313-J- 


VASSAR 

fervour  of  his  temperament,  against  a  growing 
opposition. 

This  opposition  won,  and  President  Jewett 
resigned  before  the  opening  of  the  college  to  which 
he  had  given  years  of  ardent  work.  The  actual 
factor  was  a  letter  he  had  written  under  great 
nervous  strain  and  considerable  heat  of  temper, 
in  which  he  asserted  that  the  Founder  was  showing 
an  increasingly  childish  and  vacillating  spirit. 
This  letter  was  put  into  Matthew  Vassar's  hands, 
and  the  break  followed. 

But  Vassar  College  was  not  to  be  stopped  now. 
It  possessed  an  unusually  good  equipment  for  the 
time,  its  charter  was  singularly  broad,  and  it  had, 
in  its  Founder,  a  man  who  was  growing  to  meet 
the  opportunity  in  a  remarkable  manner.  He 
wanted  the  best,  and  every  day  he  saw  further 
to  what  that  best  meant.  No  small  and  mean 
rules  should  warp  the  women  coming  here  to 
work  and  to  study.  He  wanted  women  to  stand 
beside  men  as  its  professors,  he  wanted  the  re- 
ligious element  based  not  on  this  church  or  that, 
but  on  every  Christian  church.  As  he  said,  "  Let 
our  pupils  see  and  know  that  beyond  every  dif- 
ference there  is,  after  all,  but  one  God,  one 
Gospel;  and  that  the  spires  of  whatsoever  church 
forever  point  to  heaven." 

On  September  20,  1865,  the  college  opened. 
The  great  building  was  ready,  the  gardens  and 

-j-314-?- 


VASSAR 

parks  were  laid  out  and  blooming,  a  curriculum 
had  been  prepared  that  had  weathered  many 
vicissitudes,  being  forced  to  bow  in  some  degree 
to  the  ideas  current  at  the  time,  but  which  worked 
fairly  well,  and  which  was  in  the  hands  of  a  fine 
Faculty.  Vassar  was  open,  and  to  it,  from  all  over 
the  country,  came  eager  students,  some  as  young 
as  fifteen,  many  in  their  early  twenties,  others 
mature  women  who  had  longed  for  a  wider  horizon 
and  saw  in  Matthew  Vassar's  realised  vision  a 
hope  come  true. 

Vassar  opened  as  Vassar  Female  College,  but 
there  was  strong  objection  to  the  word  female, 
and  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale,  editor  of  "  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,"  made  a  successful  effort  to  have 
the  word  stricken  out.  In  1867  the  marble  slab 
in  the  front  of  the  original,  now  known  as  the 
Main  Building,  was  taken  out  and  the  present  one 

VASSAR  COLLEGE 
Founded  A.  D.  1861 

substituted. 

It  had  taken  twenty  years  from  Matthew 
Vassar's  visit  to  London  and  the  hospital  that 
first  spoke  to  him  of  a  use  for  his  money  other 
than  that  of  decorating  his  country  home  and 
laying  out  his  private  grounds,  to  the  opening 
of  the  college  that  bears  his  name.  They  had 


VASSAR 

been  twenty  years  of  happiness,  of  great  spiritual 
and  intellectual  growth,  of  an  ever-broadening 
activity.  Three  years  later,  seated  at  conference 
with  the  Board,  to  whom  he  was  reading  his 
customary  address,  his,  head  fell  back  upon  the 
chair,  and  with  hardly  more  than  a  sigh  death 
took  him. 

To-day  the  great  institution  on  the  Hudson 
has  grown  from  one  to  over  a  score  of  buildings. 
Its  campus  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  to  be 
found,  and  thousands  study  in  its  halls  where 
there  were  hundreds  in  his  day.  It  was  Vassar 
that  fought  the  good  fight  for  a  woman's  right  to 
the  best  there  is  of  education  and  cultural  de- 
velopment, preceding  by  ten  years  any  other 
strong  women's  colleges  here  in  America,  and 
meeting  the  brunt  of  all  the  objections,  fears  and 
enemies  to  such  a  conception  without  waver- 
ing. 

No  wonder  Vassar  women  are  enthusiastic  and 
loyal  daughters  of  their  Alma  Mater. 

And  now  for  the  present  day,  and  the  picture 
as  we  saw  it,  with  June  on  the  brink,  and  the 
Vassar  girls  working  harder  than  ever,  not  only 
at  the  curriculum,  but  on  the  famous  farm  that 
has  always  belonged  to  the  college,  though  as  a 
rule  the  girls  have  shown  no  overpowering  interest 
in  agriculture.  But  in  this  war  year  they  were 
doing  their  bit  behind  the  hoe  with  a  glorious 

-j-316-*- 


VASSAR 

enthusiasm  and  splendid  results  in  the  rows  of 
growing  vegetables. 

"Who  will  write  'The  Girl  with  the  Hoe'?" 
asked  Sister,  after  we  had  seen  them  at  work. 

Vassar  is  about  two  miles  from  Poughkeepsie, 
in  which  she  shows  her  good  sense,  for  though 
the  city,  with  its  parks  and  its  old  homes,  ter- 
raced up  from  the  river  as  it  is,  holds  much  of 
beauty,  it  is  too  busy  and  crowded  a  place  to 
have  given  Vassar  the  wide  sweep  she  enjoys 
back  there  on  her  own  hills  under  her  giant  trees. 
A  small  community  has  grown  up  about  her, 
which  is  part  of  the  township  of  Poughkeepsie, 
though  it  is  not  incorporated.  This  village  is 
known  as  Arlington.  Its  claims  to  consideration 
are  use  rather  than  beauty,  but  its  unattractive- 
ness  adds  to  the  effect  of  Vassar  upon  the  visitor, 
if  that  were  needed. 

You  go  in  through  the  Lodge  entrance,  a 
medieval  looking  gateway  of  two  flanking  tower- 
like  buildings  joined  by  a  central  portion  over 
a  triple  arch.  A  clock  is  set  in  the  middle,  above 
a  row  of  narrow  windows.  The  effect  is  good. 
A  low  wall  fences  the  college  grounds  from  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

By  curves  and  under  trees  you  reach  the 
campus,  which  now  has  vastly  overstepped  the 
limits  of  the  old  grounds  laid  out  by,  it  is 
said,  Frederick  Law  Olmstead.  Vassar  is  for- 

-+317-*- 


VASSAR 

tunate  in  her  trees,  which  are  fine  and  of  many 
varieties.  Pines  flourish,  firs  make  solid  walls, 
beeches  and  oaks  and  maples,  many  of  them 
class  trees,  for  the  Sophomore  Class  plants  a 
tree  for  its  memorial,  give  each  their  form  and 
colour  to  the  picture.  Then  there  are  gardens; 
gardens  of  all  sorts,  formal  and  useful,  spring 
and  wild,  each  one  a  glory  and  a  delight  after 
its  own  fashion.  Amid  all  this  expanse  of 
natural  and  cultivated  verdure  and  colour,  the 
buildings,  finely  spaced  and  conforming  to  a 
large  extent  to  the  Gothic  type,  stand  nobly.  To 
be  sure,  there  are  many  other  specimens  of  archi- 
tecture than  the  Gothic.  There  is  the  huge  bulk 
of  Main,  which  has  been  partly  remodelled,  and 
whose  character  is  found  in  its  practical  fulfilment 
of  the  ends  for  which  it  was  meant.  There  is 
the  Students'  Building,  in  the  style  of  one  of 
Virginia's  public  Colonial  halls.  There  is  the 
Olivia  Josselyn  Hall,  with  its  wide  spreading 
wings  and  severity  of  outline,  and  the  New  Eng- 
land Building,  fashioned  like  some  old  Colonial 
structure  in  Massachusetts  or  Maine. 

But  Taylor  Hall,  that  gives  a  magnificent 
entrance  to  the  campus  through  its  perfectly 
proportioned  archway,  the  Chapel  with  its  fine 
cloisters  and  low  Norman  tower,  the  Library, 
perhaps  most  beautiful  of  Vassar's  buildings, 
these  make  the  college  notable  for  Gothic  addi- 


The  Library,  Perhaps   the  Most  Beautiful  of 
Vassar's  Buildings 


VASSAR 

tions  to  our  American  possessions  of  that  special 
form  for  which  we  can  well  be  thankful.  There 
are  other  portions  of  the  college  that  take  this 
same  architectural  shape,  but  these  three  are 
supreme. 

The  flat  campus,  while  about  are  plenty  of  hills 
and  long  slopes,  is  most  effective.  It  gives  dis- 
tance, it  allows  the  arching  trees  to  form  long 
aisles,  it  harmonises  the  various  portions  of  the 
college  into  one  impressive  whole. 

Main  once  held  all  Vassar.  Now  practically 
all  the  different  departments  have  found  each  its 
own  building,  the  professors  have  moved  out  to 
houses  of  their  own,  the  great  residence  buildings 
make  the  new  homes  for  the  students.  Here, 
however,  Main  still  holds  its  own,  for  in  her  the 
Seniors  live,  and  here  they  have  their  Parlour, 
that  room  that  has  become  one  of  Vassar's  chief 
traditions — and  bids  fair  to  become,  too,  an 
enormous  expense  to  each  incoming  Senior  Class. 
For  it  was  considered  that  the  latest  come 
Seniors  must  express  the  particular  character  and 
temperament  of  their  special  class  in  a  totally 
different  way  from  those  who  had  gone  before. 
So  new  furniture,  new  rugs  and  hangings  and 
fittings,  must  be  put  into  the  old  room.  Each 
class  tried  to  outdo  the  one  preceding,  with  the 
natural  result  that  economy  curled  up  and  died, 
and  it  was  becoming  impossible  to  beat  the  game, 


VASSAR 

anyway.  Thereupon  reason  stepped  in  and  now 
the  girls  are  gradually  assembling  certain  per- 
manent pieces  in  the  Parlour,  and  seeking  sim- 
plicity rather  than  expensiveness  in  the  more 
ephemeral  of  the  decorations. 

It  is  close  to  Main  and  the  older  buildings,  with 
the  ivy  creeping  up  the  brick  walls,  that  you  find 
the  largest  of  the  Class  trees.  The  Sophomore 
Tree  exercises  usually  take  the  form  of  a  lovely 
pageant,  with  dances  and  singing.  Now  it  may 
be  some  Druid  ceremony,  with  woven  paces  and 
with  waving  arms,  or  lightly  dancing  hamadryads 
that  play  some  Grecian  game.  Or  it  may  take 
the  form  of  an  old  legend,  or  simply  express  some 
charming  fancy  born  in  an  undergraduate  brain. 
Raymond  Hall,  Strong  Hall,  these  have  their 
trees  from  older  days.  Now  they  are  being  set 
out  along  the  newer  campus  and  by  buildings 
that  have  come  into  being  since  the  new  century 
entered — and  Vassar  has  made  great  growth  in 
the  past  ten  years.  The  Chapel,  the  Gothic 
Library,  the  Chemical  Laboratory,  Students' 
Building,  Taylor  Hall,  all  these  have  been  built 
since  1904,  besides  a  great  work  of  reconstruction 
in  some  of  the  older  buildings.  Vassar  has  never 
lost  any  of  her  original  buildings.  No  fire  has 
come  to  destroy  the  cradle  in  which  she  spent 
her  youth.  Here  she  is  to-day,  growing  on  and 
on,  spreading  into  new  halls  and  lecture  rooms 

-?-320-*- 


VASSAR 

and  laboratories,  yet  keeping  all  she  had.  You 
can  read  the  whole  history  of  Vassar  right  on 
her  campus. 

Even  the  grounds  themselves  have  grown  and 
changed  with  her  development.  Besides  the  little 
old  lake  there  is  the  New  Lake;  and  come,  as 
we  did,  on  a  day  in  spring  down  the  path  to  that 
lake,  with  its  tall  pines  mingling  their  singing 
boughs  far  overhead,  whispering  of  the  water 
that  begins  to  gleam  between  their  trunks. 
Follow  that  exquisite  path  as  it  follows  the  curves 
of  the  lake  shore.  What  a  green  and  checkered 
way  it  is,  and  how  the  birds  sing  there! 

Sister  and  I,  who  had  been  going  the  round 
of  the  buildings,  joyfully  followed  a  charming  girl 
along  this  path,  steeped  with  pine  fragrance  and 
bordered  by  lovely  little  wild  flowers,  purple  and 
white  and  pink. 

"  Do  you  use  the  lake  much? "  was  our  question. 
For  it  looked  a  place  to  live  on,  as  we  stopped 
to  gaze  across  to  the  hillslope  on  the  farther  bank, 
Sunset  Hill,  or  Sunset,  as  they  call  it,  affection- 
ately. Pines  fringed  its  brow,  and  on  one  side 
an  orchard  from  which  the  blossoms  had  now 
gone  climbed  sturdily  up,  the  trees  leaning  over 
to  the  task  in  the  way  the  apple  has. 

'  We  float  about  a  lot  in  those  safety  first  flat- 
bottomed  boats,  that  are  the  best  in  the  world  to 
lounge  in.  And  we  canoe,  too.  Go  way  up  the 

-+•321-*- 


VASSAR 

brook,  across  a  swamp,  anywhere  where  a  few 
inches  of  water  will  float  the  canoe.  But  it 
isn't  big  enough  for  racing." 

Vassar  is  a  place  for  walks,  even  for  hikes. 
They  have  their  Mountain  Day  here  too.  Usually 
it  falls  about  the  middle  of  October,  and  away 
goes  the  whole  college.  Some  make  tramps  of 
twenty  miles,  others  are  far  more  conservative, 
and  two  miles  look  good  to  them.  But  before 
any  girl  is  through  with  her  four  years  she  is 
sure  to  appreciate  outdoor  life.  You  couldn't  live 
in  such  an  environment  and  not  be  attracted  to  the 
great  outdoors. 

"We  have  a  skating  carnival  in  winter,  lots 
of  fun,"  went  on  our  guide,  stepping  ahead  of  us 
in  her  green  smock,  that  merged  with  the  wood- 
land delightfully.  "  Build  big  bonfires  all  round 
the  lake,  hang  up  Jap.  lanterns,  toast  chestnuts 
and  marshmallows,  and  skate  to  beat  the  band. 
We  ask  our  men  friends  to  that,  and  it's  a  sight, 
with  the  shadows  leaping  and  falling,  and  the 
woollen  caps  and  sweaters,  all  colours,  the  black 
lake  and  sky,  the  trees,  the  white  snow.  Once 
in  a  while  we  get  some  coasting,  though  there  are 
so  many  trees  that  we  usually  have  more  spills 
than  clear  racing.  But  fun!" 

She  had  more  to  say  about  the  lake,  for  it 
seems  that  if  there  is  no  skating  a  gloom  falls 
upon  the  college,  not  alone  because  a  charming 

.-*-  322  -*- 


VASSAR 

sport  is  lost,  but  because  it  is  a  Vassar  fact  that 
more  students  fail  at  midyear  examinations.  So 
it  is,  let  who  can  explain  it. 

"  Exams.,"  she  continued,  with  a  considerable 
twinkle  in  her  eye,  "  are  queer  things.  Now,  it 
is  a  foregone  conclusion  that  every  Freshman  has 
to  fall  down  the  entrance  stairs  of  Main  at  least 
once.  Should  she  escape  this  fate,  she  won't  pass 
her  exams.  Out  she  goes.  It  is  mysterious,  but 
Vassar  has  her  mysteries.  There  is  a  ghost  in 
North  Tower,  you  know.  And  the  owl,  of  course, 
is  our  bird.  You  can  see  its  interesting  face  on 
the  spoons  in  Senior  Parlour,  and  meet  it  round 
generally.  Well,  the  wise  bird  knows  it's  our 
mascot,  and  there  are  always  one  or  two  living 
round  the  eaves  of  Main." 

We  walked  across  to  the  outdoor  theatre,  under 
the  trees  on  Sunset  in  a  natural  amphitheatre. 
Vassar's  Dramatic  Club  gives  plays  here,  and 
pageants  are  also  held  in  its  green  lap.  Vassar 
loves  pageants  and  dancing.  There  is  the  Senior 
hoop  and  dance  celebration  of  May  Day.  Each 
class  varies  the  program,  of  course.  But  it  is 
usually  held  at  dusk  of  a  fine  May  evening,  the 
Seniors  are  in  costume,  the  hoops  trimmed  to 
match,  and  the  evolutions,  measured  and  beauti- 
ful, with  the  colours  of  the  dresses  carefully 
planned  and  massed,  make  an  unforgettable 
sight.  Founder's  Day  is  another  occasion  for 

-f-323-*- 


VASSAR 

festal  events.  Field  Day  is  the  time  for  the 
athletic  contests  on  the  Circle.  Vassar  was  busy 
with  athletics  before  such  things  were  considered 
quite  proper  by  the  mammas  of  the  period,  and 
she  has  kept  them  up.  Now  there  is  the  big  new 
Gymnasium  with  its  track  and  paraphernalia,  there 
are  tennis  fields  and  golf,  basket  ball  and  base- 
ball. Vassar  is  agitating  the  question  of  inter- 
collegiate sports. 

"  Why  shouldn't  the  girls'  colleges  compete  with 
each  other  as  well  as  have  the  interclass  contests?  " 
I  wanted  to  be  told.  But  the  matter  is  still  a 
moot  one.  There  is  the  danger  of  making  ath- 
letics too  important,  there  is  the  expense,  and  it 
will  be  necessary  to  get  the  other  women's  colleges 
to  agree,  since  it  would  hardly  pay  to  have  but 
two  or  three  interested. 

The  students  all  live  in  the  Residence  Halls, 
and  have  their  various  dining  halls.  Student 
Building  has  one,  also  Main,  and  there  are  others. 
The  college  is  supplied  with  its  own  milk,  having 
a  beautiful  herd  of  certified  cows,  on  whose  sleek 
forms  we  were  permitted  to  gaze.  The  farm  sup- 
plies fresh  vegetables  too.  This  has  obtained  from 
the  first  and  works  out  well.  It  makes  for  a  large 
number  of  employees,  most  of  whom  live  in  the 
village  of  Arlington.  Vassar  runs  a  club  for  these 
assistants,  at  least  for  the  women,  the  Goodfellow- 
ship  Club.  There  are  no  dues,  and  the  college  girls 


VASSAR 

do  a  lot  of  work  in  connection  with  the  classes 
held  there,  the  dances  and  parties  given.  It  is 
a  sort  of  college  settlement  right  inside  the  college 
walls,  where  girls  interested  in  social  betterment 
can  come  to  grips  with  actual  conditions. 

Vassar  works  hard  for  democracy  within  her 
gates.  It  is  the  proper  thing  to  dress  simply. 
No  student  is  allowed  to  keep  a  horse  or  an 
automobile.  All  the  rooms  on  the  campus,  be 
they  good  or  be  they  less  so,  cost  the  same.  You 
must  depend  on  your  luck  and  not  on  your  pocket- 
book  to  secure  the  one  you  want.  Another  point 
making  for  democracy  is  that  the  Faculty  share 
the  houses  on  the  campus  to  an  unusual  extent 
with  the  students.  There  is  a  most  friendly  and 
chummy  relationship  between  many  of  the  girls 
and  their  women  professors.  There  have  never 
been  any  fraternities;  the  unit  is  the  class.  A 
Student  Association  sees  that  the  rules  of  the 
college  are  maintained.  There  used  to  be  a  great 
many,  but  now  the  modern  idea  prevails,  and  the 
girls  are  no  longer  treated  like  children.  Chapel 
attendance  is  enforced  by  the  Faculty,  which 
also  has  the  responsibility  for  social  conduct 
beyond  the  campus,  and  for  absences  from  college 
in  its  control.  But  most  of  the  extra-collegiate 
matters  are  managed  by  the  Seniors  who  form 
the  Association. 

The  day  had  grown  warm,  and  we  lingered  at 
-i-325-*- 


VASSAR 

the  Gymnasium  to  watch  the  swimming  in  the 
pool  with  envy.  Every  girl  seemed  to  be  an 
adept  at  diving  and  fancy  strokes.  How  they 
loved  it!  Surely  this  life  of  the  college  girl  is 
a  full  and  an  interesting  one.  It  takes  both  body 
and  mind  and  seeks  to  make  them  fit  and  fine.  It 
is  full  of  joyous  celebrations,  and  there  is  plenty 
of  serious  work.  Out  again  on  the  campus  we 
were  given  an  idea  of  the  charm  of  Class  Day, 
and  of  the  singing  on  the  steps  of  Rockefeller 
Hall. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  Daisy  Chain.  The 
march  from  Rockefeller  to  the  Square  before  the 
Chapel,  with  the  different  classes  in  their  fresh 
summer  gowns,  the  famous  chain  in  the  midst, 
a  chosen  group  from  the  Sophomore  Class,  clad 
in  pure  white,  bearing  the  flowery  rope  on  their 
young  shoulders.  On  the  night  of  Commence- 
ment Day  the  class  supper  is  held,  and  the 
Seniors,  so  soon  to  scatter,  sing  around  the  tree 
they  planted  in  their  Sophomore  year.  There  is 
a  picnic  supper  on  the  Circle  the  evening  of 
Class  Day,  there  are  dances  and  receptions. 

With  each  step  you  take  about  the  campus 
you  find  some  item  worth  notice.  There  is  the 
inscription  on  the  lamps  leading  to  the  Library: 
"  Light  Was  Given  Us  to  Discover  Onward 
Things."  There  is  the  Conservatory,  a  spot  of 
revelling  flowers  and  growing  things.  There  is 

-f-326-*- 


VASSAR 

the  Observatory,  with  its  traditions  of  Miss  Maria 
Mitchell's  Dome  parties,  delight  of  her  students. 

"  And  here  they  hold  the  Junior  Masquerade 
in  April,  when  all  sorts  of  stunts  and  skits  are 
the  order  of  the  hour.  And  the  College  Choir 
marches  here  to  Chapel  for  the  Commencement 
exercises.  And  here  .  .  .  and  here  .  .  ." 

But  enough.  It  would  take  much  more  than 
a  chapter  to  tell  about  Vassar.  There  she  is, 
among  her  glens  and  singing  brooks,  her  splendid 
campus,  her  two  lakes  and  her  hills,  busy,  happy, 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  times.  This  year  her 
students  have  been  plunged  in  war  relief  work, 
in  Red  Cross  work,  in  agricultural  labour.  They 
are  thoroughly  alive  to  the  call  of  the  times,  and 
ready  to  give  themselves  freely. 

"If  this  business  the  reincarnationists  tell  us 
is  true,  I'm  going  to  come  back  here  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  being  a  college  girl,"  declared  Sister, 
as  we  motored  away  to  take  the  departing  train. 
"  Choosing  would  be  difficult,  but  you  can  go 
from  college  to  college  in  each  reincarnation,  and 
get  the  fun — and  of  course  the  work — out  of  all." 

The  work  is  the  most  important  part  to  the 
college.  But  to  the  visitor  it  is  the  fun  that 
makes  the  greater  appeal. 


327 


CHAPTER  XV 

West  Point 

As  we  sped  along  the  Hudson,  south  from  Pough- 
keepsie,  we  were  on  familiar  ground.  More  than 
once  the  boat  races  had  brought  us  up  here,  when 
everything  was  a-flutter  with  flags  and  packed 
with  holiday  girls  and  boys  and  alumni.  We 
decided,  being  now  fairly  wise  on  the  subject  of 
women's  colleges,  that  the  girls'  crews  ought  to 
meet  on  that  beautiful  stream  each  year  for  a 
race  and  regatta  of  their  own. 

"Why  not?  Wouldn't  it  be  a  fine  sight  to 
see  those  slim  maids  pulling  against  each  other, 
with  mothers  and  aunts  proudly  telling  how  they 
themselves  had  rowed  stroke  or  number  five  or 
been  coxswain  of  the  crew  of  such  and  such  a 
year,  and  brothers  and  fathers  rooting  with  all 
their  manly  vigour?  I  think  it  will  come  some 
day,  and  I  hope  I  can  get  up  here  to  see  it."  So 
Sister. 

I  put  the  thought  down  here,  a  free  gift  to  the 
athletic  societies  of  the  women's  colleges. 

West  Point  was  almost  like  getting  home  to 
us.  Many  a  wonderful  night  had  we  had  at 
cadet  hops  in  the  years  when  such  events  spell 

H-328-*- 


WEST  POINT 

the  word  heaven.  Every  inch  of  that  historic 
ground  not  covered  by  buildings  into  which  we 
were  not  allowed  to  go  was  known  to  us.  The 
river  there  takes  a  noble  course  between  the 
precipitous  Highlands,  that  tower  up  to  Storm 
King  and  Crowsnest  on  the  West  Point  side,  and 
the  lovely  hills  of  the  opposite  shore,  where,  at 
Garrison's,  we  left  the  train  to  take  the  ferry 
across. 

There  had  been  much  building  on  the  Academy 
grounds  since  we  had  been  frequent  guests  there. 
The  Chapel,  rising  so  superbly  above  the  trees 
that  climbed  the  abrupt  slope  from  the  river,  had 
not  been  finished  when  last  we  visited  there.  The 
whole  outline  of  the  college  as  seen  from  the 
river  was  more  impressive,  more  solid,  far  more 
what  a  great  military  school  should  be,  than  in 
the  old  days.  Between  1902  and  1908  West  Point 
had  had  something  like  seven  and  a  half  millions 
spent  on  improving  its  equipment.  The  work 
had  been  needed,  and  it  has  been  magnificently 
carried  out. 

The  road  from  the  ferry  landing  that  carries 
you  up  to  the  plateau  where  West  Point  stands, 
dominating  the  Hudson  like  some  medieval  town 
in  an  ancient  print  above  a  fabled  river,  is  easier 
of  grade  than  it  used  to  be,  and  in  tip -top  condi- 
tion. Our  jitney  whisked  us  up  with  no  more 
effort  that  it  takes  a  ball  to  sail  through  the  air. 

-*-  329  -*- 


WEST  POINT 

"  We  could  do  with  some  more  like  that,"  was 
the  comment  of  our  driver,  as  we  remarked  on 
the  perfection  we  had  rolled  over. 

There  it  lay,  the  green,  flat  stretch,  some  sixty 
acres,  of  the  Parade  Ground,  looking  unchanged, 
as  it  probably  is.  The  elms  ringed  it  as  finely  as 
of  old,  drooping  their  boughs  in  a  vast  fringe 
along  its  western  edge,  where  the  roadway  bounds 
it,  and  where  the  homes  of  Officers'  Row  stand 
orderly  and  attractive. 

The  modern  buildings  have  a  fortress-like  look. 
Grey  stone,  with  square  towers  and  battlemented 
f  asades,  with  long,  narrow  windows,  the  academic 
building  stretches  in  a  long  line  from  one  angle  to 
the  other,  a  truly  colossal  structure.  There  is 
nothing  ephemeral  in  the  present  appearance  of 
West  Point.  It  is  built  for  use  and  it  is  built  to 
stay.  There  is  something  stern  in  the  effect  it  gives, 
but  this  does  not  detract  from  its  beauty. 

"  It  looks  the  way  it  ought  to  look,"  said  Sister, 
as  we  walked,  matching  our  memories  with  what 
we  now  saw.  And  somehow,  for  all  its  changes, 
the  old  place  gives  you  the  same  feeling. 

This  is  partly  because  the  setting  of  the  school 
is  so  wonderful,  the  outline  of  mountain,  precipice, 
curving  river,  the  farther  views,  the  nearer  splen- 
dour of  forest  are  so  unforgettable.  It  is  these  that 
have  remained  in  your  mind,  not  the  precise  look 
and  placing  of  the  buildings. 

-«-  330  -«- 


WEST  POINT 

We  crossed  the  Parade  Ground,  going  north 
to  the  Battle  Monument,  with  its  Victory,  work 
of  MacMonnies,  atop  the  graceful  column.  Be- 
yond that  flying  figure  the  blue  reaches  of  the 
Hudson  sweep  grandly.  Constitution  Island,  site 
of  two  old  forts,  and  the  property  of  the  Point 
since  1908,  lies  in  the  river  almost  directly  below. 
You  seem  to  be  looking  on  a  sea  of  green  boughs 
where  you  are  not  looking  at  the  shining  river. 
Surely  never  was  there  a  greener  stretch  of  country 
than  that  around  West  Point,  or  one  more  thickly 
wooded. 

"Mustn't  miss  Flirtation  Walk,"  I  reminded 
Sister. 

West  Point  is  not  so  devoid  of  "  quiet  nooks  " 
as  Annapolis.  The  contours  of  its  site  cannot 
be  so  easily  circumvented  here  as  there  by  the 
machinations  of  landscape  gardeners  or  official 
plans.  Flirtation  is  a  long,  meandering  path, 
barely  wide  enough  for  two,  that  hangs  its  en- 
chanted footway  along  the  cliffs  of  the  river  edge 
of  the  post  for  a  considerable  distance.  There 
are  times  when  any  one  not  accompanied  by  a 
cadet  would  be  an  intruder  here.  But  at  present 
the  students  were  all  thoroughly  occupied  behind 
the  grey  walls  of  Academic  Building.  That  is 
one  thing  about  a  military  or  a  naval  school.  You 
can  find  every  single  cadet  at  any  moment  of  the 
day,  simply  by  looking  at  the  clock.  That  is,  of 


WEST  POINT 

course,  if  you  know  the  schedule.  We  had  been 
familiar  with  it  once,  from  reveille  to  taps.  And 
now,  since  we  saw  no  grey  figures  moving  any- 
where, we  knew  that  they  must  be  at  their  study 
hours. 

The  first  class  had  already  graduated,  on  ac- 
count of  the  war.  The  second  was  to  graduate 
months  and  months  before  its  time,  but  was  still 
here,  with  the  plebes  and  the  third  class  or  year- 
lings. Presently  the  whole  corps  of  cadets  would 
be  moving  into  summer  camp. 

That  camp  is  a  sight  every  housekeeper  in  the 
world  should  see.  Those  immaculate  company 
streets,  the  tents  so  perfectly  aligned,  all  the 
living  arrangements  completely  adjusted  to  the 
requirements,  not  a  thread  or  a  fold  out  of  place 
or  crooked.  In  the  Army  and  the  Navy,  and  in 
their  two  Academies  that  draw  boys  from  every 
part  of  the  land  and  from  all  conditions  of  life, 
neatness  and  order  are  raised  to  the  height  of  fine 
arts.  No  lad  who  has  spent  his  four  years  at 
either  place  is  going  to  have  a  sloppy  or  an  untidy 
cell  in  his  entire  makeup. 

During  the  summer  the  academic  work  is  sus- 
pended, and  the  cadets  attend  entirely  to  the 
business  of  learning  to  live  properly  in  camp,  and 
to  what  they  call  field  work,  which  means  a 
good  deal.  Rain  or  shine,  they  are  out  in  the 
open  to  a  degree  that  makes  it  unanimous. 


WEST  POINT 

Marches,  drills,  riding  and  artillery  practice,  map 
making  .  .  . 

But  I  won't  change  this  into  an  itinerary  of 
the  myriad  tasks  that  engage  a  West  Point  cadet 
even  at  what  might  be  termed  the  slack  time 
of  year.  It  is  usually  soon  after  the  graduation 
of  the  first  class  that  the  corps  moves  to  its 
summer  quarters.  In  a  moment  the  tents  are 
raised,  the  figures  that  seemed  to  be  scurrying 
about  aimlessly  have  finished  changing  a  piece  of 
ground  into  a  little  city,  the  band  plays,  every- 
thing is  ship-shape  and  company  by  company  the 
boys  take  possession. 

West  Point,  now  moving  with  such  smooth- 
ness, and  destined  to  greater  expansion,  for  which 
it  stands  ready  and  fit,  had  anything  but  a  smooth 
beginning.  It  started  and  halted  and  almost 
quit,  like  a  balky  car.  Washington  had  recom- 
mended the  Point  as  a  good  place  for  the  mili- 
tary school  that  had  been  proposed  as  far  back 
as  1776,  by  Henry  Knox.  At  that  time  a 
committee  to  draw  plans  for  such  a  school  was 
appointed  by  the  Continental  Congress.  The 
year  following  a  Corps  of  Invalids  was  organised 
in  Philadelphia,  and  in  1781  this  corps  was  trans- 
ferred to  West  Point,  and  was  to  serve  "  as  a 
military  school  for  young  gentlemen  previous  to 
their  appointment  to  marching  regiments."  To 
accommodate  the  corps  of  teachers  and  the  young 


WEST  POINT 

gentlemen  due  to  follow,  three  buildings  had  been 
erected,  a  Library  and  Engineers'  School  and  a 
Laboratory. 

But  Washington  wanted  something  more  like 
the  idea  contained  in  Knox's  recommendation  for 
an  Academy,  and  in  1783  he  took  the  matter  up 
at  Newburgh,  to  which  he  had  removed  his  head- 
quarters. Nothing  much  happened,  however.  It 
was  not  till  '94  that  a  school  for  artillery, 
engineers  and  cadets  was  established,  and  two 
years  later  the  buildings  burned  down,  ending 
that. 

Once  more,  in  1801,  the  attempt  to  get  a  start 
was  made.  In  fact,  it  was  all  starts.  In  1802 
there  was  another,  President  Jefferson  approving 
an  act  to  establish  a  military  school  at  West  Point, 
and  on  the  Fourth  of  July  of  that  year  the 
Academy  opened  with  ten  cadets.  Acts  of  this 
year  and  of  1808  authorised  as  many  as  a  hundred 
and  seventy-six  cadets,  but  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it.  Nothing  was  done  toward  appointing  them, 
and  during  the  season  of  1811-12  there  was  prac- 
tically no  instruction  at  all.  In  March  of  the 
latter  year  there  was  not  a  single  instructor  at 
the  school.  So  far,  in  all  its  years  of  life,  if  it 
could  be  called  anything  so  energetic  as  life, 
eighty-eight  cadets  had  been  graduated. 

But  one  month  later  a  change  came.  Congress 
got  stirred  to  whatever  corresponds  to  depths,  re- 

-+•334-?- 


WEST  POINT 

organised  the  Academy  and  developed  general 
plans  and  principles  that  have  endured  to  this 
time.  As  many  as  two  hundred  and  fifty  cadets 
were  allowed,  and  a  Superintendent  appointed. 
This  man  was  Major  Sylvanus  Thayer,  an  able 
and  intelligent  officer,  and  under  his  administra- 
tion West  Point  found  a  real  birth. 

The  historical  interest  of  the  place  dates  back 
before  it  was  a  school,  of  course.  Here  were 
part  of  the  important  defences  of  the  Hudson. 
Up  on  the  hill  behind  the  Academy  was  Fort 
Putnam,  named  for  General  Rufus  Putnam,  the 
great  engineer,  who  planned  the  defences.  Down 
close  to  the  present  landing  was  Battery  Knox. 
At  the  sharpest  projection  of  the  point  stood 
Fort  Clinton,  called  Fort  Arnold  at  that  time. 

Old  Fort  Putnam,  or  its  ruins,  still  remain,  and 
the  climb  up  Independence  Mount  is  worth  taking, 
not  so  much  because  the  grass-covered  remains  of 
the  earthworks  tell  you  much,  nor  the  shattered 
walls  that  are  so  covered  with  creepers,  but  be- 
cause of  the  view.  An  autumn  day  up  there  is  a 
revelation  of  what  the  Hudson  Highlands  can  do 
in  the  way  of  colour,  and  the  view  up  and  down 
the  river  extends  for  miles.  Fort  Clinton,  nearer 
to  the  Academy,  has  before  it  a  monument  to 
Kosciusko,  who  was  associated  here  with  General 
Putnam,  which  was  put  up  by  the  Corps  of  Cadets 
of  1828.  It  was  these  fortifications  that  Benedict 


WEST  POINT 

Arnold,  then  commanding  them,  had  planned  to 
deliver  into  the  British  hands. 

Sister  and  I  climbed  the  hill  to  Fort  Putnam 
for  the  remembered  beauty  of  that  panorama. 
Could  it  really  be  as  lovely  as  we  thought  it 
had  been? 

It  is. 

You  look  up  river  to  where  the  bulk  of  Crows- 
nest  faces  the  noble  headlands  that  there  reach 
their  greatest  height  on  the  opposite  shore.  The 
river  narrows  and  darkens  between  them,  with 
wonderful  purple  and  emerald  hues  caught  from 
their  shaggy  sides.  Just  a  glimpse  of  farther 
stretches,  silvery  clear,  and  lower  hills.  The 
long,  beautiful  island,  with  its  bold  banks,  splits 
the  water  just  below  the  narrow  gorge,  and 
the  opposite  country  here  lowers  and  spreads 
to  lovely  rolling  hills,  still  thickly  wooded,  but 
showing  a  white  spire  or  a  roof,  a  cluster  of 
buildings  on  the  shore,  the  tracks  of  the  New 
York  Central  and  a  crawling  train.  Right  below 
the  Parade,  the  buildings,  the  ordered  beauty  of 
the  Post  lies  flat  before  you,  beyond  the  massed 
trees  that  slope  down  to  it,  while  southward  the 
eye  gathers  other  glorious  reaches  of  green  and 
blue.  A  steamer  comes  upstream,  a  sailing  boat 
slips  through  the  water. 

Around  us  hundreds  of  birds  were  flitting  and 
singing,  mad  with  the  loveliness  of  the  early  June 

-*•  336  •+- 


The  Chapel,  West  Point 


WEST  POINT 

day.     Budding  laurel  promised  glory  in  a  week 
or  two. 

"We  have  been  from  river  to  river  on  this 
little  trip  of  ours,"  Sister  remarked.  "  There  was 
the  Rapidan,  the  James,  the  Androscoggin,  the 
Connecticut.  But  after  all,  there's  something 
about  the  Hudson  ..." 

"  That  can't  be  beaten?    You're  right." 

We  walked  slowly  back  through  the  fragrant 
woods,  for  we  had  not  yet  really  begun  to  see  the 
new  West  Point. 

The  Tudor  or  Collegiate  Gothic  is  the  archi- 
tectural style  in  which  the  great  academic  build- 
ings and  the  cadet  barracks  have  been  built.  The 
Chapel  strikes  the  note  of  pure  beauty;  in  the 
working  buildings  the  first  consideration  has  of 
course  been  that  of  use,  but  beauty  has  never 
been  lost  sight  of,  and  these  fine  piles,  with  their 
towers  and  their  richly  treated  entrances,  make  a 
superb  showing.  There  is  just  enough  decoration 
—a  piece  of  carving  here,  a  turret,  an  arch,  a 
vaulted  passage,  an  arcade — to  break  the  severity 
of  the  grey  stone  with  its  necessary  repetitions 
of  design.  Clocks  add  a  bit  of  variety,  and  the 
green  boughs  of  the  trees  soften  the  whole  ad- 
mirably. It  is  a  beautifully  planned  thing,  and 
the  arrangement  of  the  buildings  is  such  that  they 
can  be  almost  indefinitely  enlarged  to  meet  in- 
creasing needs,  should  these  arise. 

-j-337-*- 


WEST  POINT 

The  most  striking  success  is  the  adaptability 
of  the  style  of  the  architecture  chosen  with  the 
type  of  landscape  into  which  it  must  fit. 

"  The  whole  thing  might  almost  have  grown 
here  of  itself,"  was  my  decision,  as  we  took  the 
effect  of  the  mass  and  extent  of  the  buildings 
with  the  crags  and  sharp  rises  that  surround  them. 
"  Nothing  else  would  have  done." 

In  the  past  the  officers'  quarters  south  of  the 
Mess  Hall,  on  what  I  believe  is  called  the  Peru 
Road,  used  to  be  unsatisfactory  and  barren 
places.  Now  they  are  charming  gabled  homes  of 
brick,  sheltered  by  an  excellently  planned  wall, 
and  making,  with  their  vines  and  under  their 
shadowing  trees,  as  pretty  and  delightful  an  im- 
pression as  any  young  wife  could  wish  for.  We 
had  visited  a  bride  in  one  of  those  earlier  houses, 
or  half -houses,  and  had  heard  criticisms  of  army 
ideas  of  home  architecture.  These  had  been  ex- 
cellently thorough,  and  you  could  almost  imagine 
anything  but  the  most  hardened  house  simply 
crumbling  under  them.  Well,  they  had  crumbled. 

"And  do  you  remember  the  first  winter  night 
we  spent  there? "  Sister  asked  me. 

I  did.  About  four  in  the  morning  we  had 
been — you  couldn't  call  it  awakened,  it  was  too 
violent,  too  tremendous,  for  that — we  had  been 
suddenly  yanked  from  a  deep  slumber  into  a 
mad  place  where  gigantic  demons  belaboured  each 

-J-338-?- 


WEST  POINT 

other  with  shrieks  and  howls,  with  wild  whangs 
of  metal  on  metal  and  terrific  explosions.  Clasp- 
ing each  other  as  we  shot  into  the  air  and 
trembling  with  emotion,  we  gasped;  we  couldn't 
even  call  for  help,  the  thing  was  too  awful. 

Somehow,  piercing  through  the  hideous  clamour 
to  where  we  sat  and  shook,  our  hostess'  voice 
reached  us  from  an  adjoining  room  where  she,  too, 
must  surely  be  suffering: 

"  Don't  mind  it,"  she  called.  "  They  are  just 
turning  on  the  heat  at  the  central  plant,  and  it's 
the  radiators." 

The  sound  of  a  bugle  reached  us  as  we  turned 
back  from  this  spot  of  many  memories,  and  we 
stepped  lively,  in  true  New  York  fashion,  for 
we  knew  it  meant  that  the  boys  were  marching 
to  mess,  and  we  wanted  to  see  them. 

If  any  one  on  earth  doubts  what  training  can 
do,  let  him  or  her  come  to  West  Point  and  see  it 
working.  When  the  candidates  arrive  they  are 
a  motley  crew  of  embarrassed  youngsters  of  every 
shape  and  size  and  idea  in  clothes.  They  come 
from  every  part  of  the  country  and  from  pretty 
nearly  every  kind  of  a  home,  or  no  home,  for 
occasionally  some  boy  has  been  appointed  from 
an  orphan  asylum.  They  look  every  which  way, 
and  they  feel  that  way  too.  "  Animals  "  was  what 
the  upperclassmen  called  them  when  we  used  to 
be  visitors  at  the  Point,  and  I  daresay  they  call 

-j-339-*- 


WEST  POINT 

them  that  yet.  I  think  the  appellation  lasts  till 
they  arrive  at  Plebe  Camp,  though  maybe  it 
drops  away  earlier. 

Look  at  those  same  boys  only  a  year  later. 

While  they  are  in  the  Plebe  state  they  are 
treated  with  a  good  deal  of  contempt  by  the 
superior  classes.  That  is,  they  are  not  supposed 
to  speak  till  spoken  to,  they  cannot  dance  at 
the  hops,  they  must  hold  themselves  rigid,  they 
must  do  certain  chores,  they  must  serve  the  dishes 
at  table, — not  as  waiters,  but  as  servers — they 
must  walk  a  chalk  line.  If  they  are  out  walking 
and  meet  an  upperclassman,  they  salute  him,  but 
to  address  him  would  be  unthinkable,  and  as  for 
his  speaking  to  them,  except  in  the  voice  of  com- 
mand, it  isn't  done,  that's  all.  The  year  has  been 
a  hard  one,  and  it  has  been  solid  work.  But 
what  it  has  accomplished  is  not  less  than  marvel- 
lous. 

We  stood  on  the  sidewalk  and  watched  the 
corps  swing  along  in  faultless  alignment.  The 
three  lower  classes  were  all  that  was  left,  since 
the  First  Class  had  gone.  The  Plebe  Class  had 
only  been  there  since  September.  Yet  look  at 
them.  Each  young  figure  so  disciplined,  so  sure 
of  its  movements,  so  rhythmical.  Clear-eyed, 
clear-skinned,  tanned,  alive  to  their  finger  tips, 
company  by  company  they  marched,  radiating 
health,  vigour  and  control. 

-+-340-*- 


WEST  POINT 

"  In  the  pink,  as  our  English  allies  would  say," 
murmured  Sister. 

The  rattle  of  commands  as  the  officers  swung 
the  column  and  took  it  into  the  hall  fell  sharp 
and  decisive.  No  hesitations,  no  mumblings,  no 
waste  movements.  Grey  line  by  line  they  van- 
ished, to  take  their  places  at  the  tables,  each 
holding  ten,  each  most  attractive  with  linen  and 
silver  .  .  .  and  immediately  to  burst  into  lively 
talk  and  laughter,  for  there  is  no  silence  rule  to 
make  eating  a  glum  business.  They  used  to  tell 
us  that  the  Plebes  were  obliged  to  answer  unerr- 
ingly just  how  many  days  it  was  to  June  when- 
ever the  question  was  fired  at  them  by  an  upper- 
classman,  and  that  this  was  one  of  the  topics 
at  meals.  If  a  Plebe  miscalculated,  why,  the  right 
number  could  easily  be  fixed  in  his  memory  by 
requiring  him  to  eat  it  in  prunes. 

"  Many  a  Plebe  forms  a  dislike  to  prunes  that 
lasts  through  life,"  was  the  grave  statement.  And 
when  we  were  further  informed  that  as  many  as 
a  hundred  had  been  eaten  by  some  luckless  youth 
as  a  penalty  we  had  not  wondered. 

Mess  Hall,  or  Grant  Hall,  to  give  it  its  right 
title,  together  with  Headquarters  Building,  con- 
tains portraits  of  a  number  of  distinguished 
soldiers.  Memorial  Hall  has  relics  of  wars  and 
victories,  of  the  heroic  dead  who  had  lived  and 
died  for  America.  Captured  cannon,  flags,  in- 

,H-  341  -H 


WEST  POINT 

signia,  West  Point  is  full  of  reminders  to  its 
growing  classes  of  what  the  men  who  preceded 
them  here  have  done.  An  hour  in  Thayer  Room 
in  the  Memorial  Hall  is  worth  more  than  many 
written  pages.  Spacious,  silent,  with  its  ring  of 
immortal  battle  names  making  a  glorious  frieze 
beneath  the  beautiful  ceiling.  The  supporting 
pilasters  that  mark  the  wall  into  segments,  within 
which  are  precious  bronzes,  portraits  and  trophies, 
seem  to  stand  like  sentinels,  guarding  a  treasure. 
At  the  end  a  painting  of  the  Hudson  opposite 
West  Point,  with  the  great  headlands  that  confine 
it,  hangs  with  the  effect  of  a  stage  drop — a  fitting 
set.  Flags  droop  their  folds  on  either  side. 

Colonel  Thayer,  called  the  Father  of  West 
Point,  has  a  granite  statue  to  his  honour  in  one 
corner  of  the  Parade  Ground,  and  a  bronze  statue 
has  been  raised  to  Major-General  Sedge  wick,  of 
the  U.  S.  Volunteers,  killed  at  Spottsylvania  while 
making  a  personal  reconnaisance. 

West  Point's  Library  is  said  to  be  the  largest 
military  library  in  the  world,  so  far  as  the  collec- 
tion of  books  goes.  The  building  has  been  tre- 
mendously improved  from  what  it  was,  having 
been,  so  far  as  we  could  see,  entirely  recon- 
structed. It  contains  two  interesting  memorials 
by  Saint  Gaudens,  in  honour  of  two  cadets  who 
never  graduated:  James  McNeil  Whistler  and 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Neither  of  these  two,  appar- 


WEST  POINT 

ently,  had  been  raised  to  be  a  soldier,  and  their 
contact  with  West  Point  was  brief.  A  drawing 
or  two  of  Whistler's  without  any  special  merit 
is  still  owned  by  the  Academy,  but  there  seem  to 
be  no  West  Point  poems  by  Poe. 

If  we  had  had  time  we  should  have  travelled 
again  the  lovely  bit  of  road  between  the  Point 
and  the  Cemetery,  where  lie  Thayer,  Winfield 
Scott,  Anderson  and  many  more.  There  is  also 
a  monument  to  the  Cadets.  But  we  could  not 
leave  the  centre  of  interest.  Riding  drill  was 
on  on  the  drill  grounds,  with  its  clouds  of  dust 
following  the  heels  of  the  horses.  That  is  a  sight 
of  real  adventure.  Perhaps  not  so  thrilling  as 
the  stunts  done  in  Riding  Hall,  which  we  had 
watched  with  breathless  interest  many  a  time, 
especially  when  the  Plebe  Class  took  its  life  in 
its  hands  and  flew  about  the  ring,  on  or  off  the 
horse,  as  luck  had  it.  But  out  on  the  plain  it 
was  great  riding.  The  West  Point  day  is  full  of 
incidents.  In  the  morning  you  hear  the  light, 
ringing  reveille  and  soon  the  marching  feet,  and 
later  there  will  be  Guard  Mount  and  special  drills, 
sword  and  foil  exercise,  athletic  work,  the  marches 
to  and  from  mess  and  to  and  from  recitation,  and 
at  last  Dress  Parade.  Dress  Parade,  even  in 
camp,  in  all  the  speckless  pride  of  white  trousers 
and  short  cadet  jacket,  before  retreat. 

And  what  a  sight  it  is.  Sitting  there  under  the 
r*  343  -*- 


WEST  POINT 

elms  in  the  iron  seats  we  watched  it.  Heard  the 
music  blare  out  as  the  classes  formed  on  the 
south  side,  the  approaching  softness  of  sunset  just 
tingeing  the  sky.  There  they  came.  First  the 
band,  then  those  inerrant  ranks.  The  shadows 
are  deepening  a  little,  the  green  parade  looks 
greener,  beyond  the  view  spreads  far.  Over  our 
heads  the  elms  swayed  slightly,  dreaming  to  the 
music.  How  often  we  had  seen  that  gallant  sight, 
but  never  at  the  edge  of  war.  Here  they  come, 
led  by  their  trig  young  officers,  those  who  would 
so  soon  be  in  France,  fighting  in  their  turn  that 
age-long  fight  for  liberty  which  has  always  been 
America's  fight  since  the  day  of  her  birth. 

There  is  the  adjutant,  his  plume  waving.  The 
Commandant  of  the  Academy  is  waiting,  with  his 
staff.  The  commands  sound,  the  companies  ad- 
vance, the  sun  touches  the  bayonets  till  they  look 
like  a  river  of  silver.  The  colour  company  passes, 
the  banners  waving,  and  there  are  more  orders, 
rhythmic  yet  sharp,  and  with  matchless  ease  and 
precision  the  battalion  comes  to  parade  rest. 

Now  the  band  marches  across,  down  in  front  of 
the  whole  line,  pauses,  turns,  and  marches  back, 
playing  all  the  time. 

After  that  come  the  evolutions,  the  inspection, 
the  march  of  the  officers  and  salute  to  the  Com- 
mandant. Picture  on  picture.  We  sat,  looking, 
listening.  It  is  one  of  the  finest  things  in 


WEST  POINT 

America,  dress  parade  at  West  Point,  and  at 
this  time,  when  war  lay  in  waiting  for  those 
bright  figures,  it  was  almost  too  beautiful  for 
endurance.  As  the  band  died  to  silence,  as  the 
drum  rolled  and  the  flag  came  fluttering  at  the 
same  instant  to  the  ground,  to  be  caught  and 
furled,  while  the  corps  stood  at  attention  and 
such  lookers-on  as  were  there  stood  silent,  my 
eyes  were  so  full  that  the  picture  wavered  and 
blurred.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  spell  broke.  Away  marched  band 
and  cadets.  The  wives  and  friends  of  the  officers 
began  to  talk  and  laugh.  We,  who  were  to  motor 
down  home  with  friends,  made  off  to  the  waiting 
car  and  climbed  aboard.  The  sun  had  gone,  but 
the  sky  was  rose  and  purple,  and  we  left  West 
Point  behind  us  in  a  glory. 


345 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Cornell 

I  HAD  always  thought  of  New  York  as  a  state 
running  north  and  south,  and  to  find  it  just 
as  enthusiastically  going  west  was  interesting. 
Its  Western  progress  too  proved  full  of  variety. 
New  York  is  fond  of  scenery,  and  experiments 
in  pretty  much  all  kinds,  omitting  deserts  and 
snowpeaks  alone.  Sister  and  I  found  it  more 
exciting  to  look  out  of  the  car  window  than  to 
read  the  magazines  with  which  we  had  fortified 
ourselves  against  the  hours  of  travel  before  us. 
Ithaca  is  huge  and  very  busy.  Since  firearms 
are  part  of  the  job  it  has  on  its  manufacturing 
hands,  it  has  been  speeding  up  considerably  dur- 
ing the  last  three  years.  With  water  power  that 
comes  shouting  in  from  all  the  surrounding  hills, 
wheels  are  turning  madly  day  and  night,  and  the 
streets  are  crowded  with  traffic.  Even  coming 
directly  from  the  metropolis  Ithaca  gives  you  an 
impression  of  hustle  and  life.  No  quiet  college 
town  this,  lost  in  the  long,  long  thoughts  of  youth. 
But  up  on  the  heights  above  the  business  city 
there  are  charming  residential  sections.  East  Hill 
they  call  that  part,  and  Cornell  and  Cayuga 


CORNELL 

Heights,  or  simply  The  Heights,  which  has  a 
sort  of  Excelsior!  sound,  are  the  choicest  portions. 
Wonderful  views,  a  fine  air,  the  music  of  running 
waters  and  plenty  of  elbow  room  for  gardens  give 
the  Ithacan  every  reason  for  the  enthusiasm  he 
shows  regarding  his  home  town. 

Cornell,  like  the  town  to  which  it  gives  dis- 
tinction, is  also  very  busy  and  very  large.  The 
largest  of  any  American  University  except 
Columbia,  co-educational,  and  carrying  out  with 
triumphant  success  the  expressed  desire  of  Ezra 
Cornell  to  found  a  place  where  everybody  could 
learn  anything. 

Cornell  wanted  to  found  a  University  that 
was  absolutely  unsectarian,  and  that  should  meet 
the  demand  for  practical  training  and  instruction 
as  well  as  for  study  in  the  sciences  and  the 
humanities.  He  stood  ready  to  give  half  a 
million  dollars,  two  hundred  acres  of  land  and 
some  other  items  for  this  purpose,  on  condition 
that  the  state  would  add  the  money  to  be  derived 
from  the  sale  of  the  Morrill  lands,  public  lands  in 
its  possession  granted  to  it  in  1862  by  the  Morrill 
act,  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  a  college 
where  agriculture  and  the  mechanic  arts  should 
be  taught. 

In  April,  1865,  in  spite  of  bitter  opposition  to 
Cornell's  plan,  especially  from  denominational 
schools  and  institutions,  the  University  was  incor- 


CORNELL 

porated.  It  is  extraordinary  to  find  how  certainly 
opposition  can  be  counted  on  in  this  world  when 
there  is  a  proposal  to  do  anything  thoroughly 
worth  doing.  There  seems  to  be  a  permanent 
body  of  antis  in  existence,  ready  to  flap  and 
screech  and  warn  and  hamper  at  a  moment's 
notice.  One  visualises  them,  bat -like  in  their  dark 
haunts,  happy  and  at  peace  until  a  new  ray  of 
the  hated  light  strikes  upon  them,  and  then  they 
are  up  and  whirling. 

And  here,  in  spite  of  them,  magnificent  Cornell 
sat  proud  and  fair  on  its  hills,  overlooking  city 
and  lake  and  rolling  country,  welcoming  thousands 
of  young  men  and  women  yearly  to  its  privileges, 
reaching  out  through  its  summer  schools  and  its 
extension  work  to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, working  "  from  the  ground  up,"  teaching 
the  farmer  how  to  farm  and  the  scientist  how 
to  use  his  trained  faculties  for  definite  accom- 
plishment. For  a  University  with  so  broad  an 
aim,  no  more  characteristic  site  could  have  been 
chosen  than  this.  From  the  campus  you  see 
water  and  land  and  sky  at  their  loveliest,  and 
there  appears  no  limit  to  the  distance  except  that 
imposed  by  your  own  eyes.  Close  at  hand  are  the 
wildest  and  most  beautiful  glens  and  canons,  rush- 
ing streams  and  numberless  falls,  shadowed  by 
pines  and  hemlocks  and  noble  deciduous  trees- 
nature  untouched  and  splendid.  There  are  also 

•-*-  348  -f- 


CORNELL 

farms  and  factories  and  mills.  And  there  is  the 
ordered  charm  of  lawn  and  garden,  the  richness  of 
ivy,  the  dignity  of  noble  buildings.  All  that 
Cornell  stands  for  surrounds  her. 

There  is  so  much  of  Cornell  that  it  is  difficult 
to  get  a  complete  impression  of  the  University. 
You  imagine  that  you  have  seen  it  all,  and  then 
another  step  opens  up  what  looks  like  a  whole 
new  University  to  your  astonished  eyes.  But 
there  is  a  centre,  the  famous  Stone  Quadrangle, 
and  there  is  a  particularly  charming  way  of 
reaching  it,  by  Central  Avenue.  This  was  the 
mode  of  approach  Sister  and  I  chose.  The 
Avenue  is  one  of  the  college  streets,  running  from 
town  into  the  very  heart  of  the  campus,  and  is 
bordered  by  magnificent  trees,  elms  and  horse 
chestnuts.  On  one  side  is  a  paved  pathway,  on 
the  other  the  ground,  grassy  and  exquisitely  cared 
for,  slopes  upward  from  the  edge  of  the  roadbed. 

These  long  slopes  are  characteristic,  and  give 
a  beautiful  effect.  Everywhere  the  lawns  seem 
to  heave  slightly,  in  curves  so  subtle  that  they 
produce  a  sense  of  rhythm.  In  some  places 
the  descent  is  sharper,  such,  for  instance,  as  the 
ground  where  the  men's  dormitories  stand.  Here 
terraces  have  been  necessary,  the  necessity  in- 
ducing a  particularly  good  result.  Flights  of 
steps  lead  up  from  house  to  house,  the  houses 
being  architecturally  fitted  to  this  arrange- 


CORNELL 

ment  in  a  delightful  manner.  The  open  court 
that  lies  between  is  dominated  at  the  top  by  a 
beautiful,  heavy  square  tower,  that  makes  the 
transverse  holding  the  long,  descending  wings 
together.  The  stone  used  for  building  has  been 
taken  from  the  neighbourhood,  and  as  the  colour- 
ing of  this  stone  is  warm  and  varied,  the  entire 
effect  is  one  of  welcome  and  gaiety  that  is  most 
appealing. 

But  Sister  and  I  are  still  on  Central  Avenue, 
with  the  high  tower  of  the  Library  soaring  above 
the  trees,  an  unmistakable  guide  to  the  campus. 
Just  before  attaining  to  it  we  passed  Sage  Chapel, 
a  harmonious  grouping  of  gables  and  sloping 
roof,  with  great  oriel  windows  that  let  a  glam- 
ourous light  in  upon  an  interior  rich  and  sub- 
dued, with  a  vaulted  ceiling  full  of  colour  and 
finely  decorative.  Here  ministers  from  all  denom- 
inations are  free  to  preach  the  truth  they  accept, 
and  here  the  students  may  come  if  they  choose, 
or  remain  away  unquestioned.  Close  to  the 
Chapel  is  Barnes  Hall,  the  building  of  the  Chris- 
tian Association  at  Cornell,  large,  with  a  rounded 
end  and  a  tower  giving  it  a  semi-ecclesiastical  look. 
The  fact  that  Cornell  opens  its  doors  to  those 
who  have  no  religious  convictions  does  not  pre- 
vent it  from  giving  a  hearty  and  a  beautiful 
welcome  to  those  who  have. 

And  now  we  walked  on,  between  the  Library 


CORNELL 

and  Boardman  Hall  and  gazed  down  the  length 
of  the  campus. 

What  a  scene  of  activity  and  yet  of  peace  it 
was.  The  long  stretch  of  lawns,  so  beautifully 
shaded  by  elms,  with  drinking  fountains  in  grace- 
ful stone  bowls,  with  decorative  seats  of  white 
marble,  with  crossing  paths  on  which  young  men 
and  maidens  passed,  going  from  college  to  college ; 
the  stone  buildings,  richly  hung  with  vines,  the 
breadth  and  airiness,  the  impression  of  being  on 
a  height — the  moment  was  a  fine  one. 

Clear  across,  occupying  the  entire  north  end, 
was  Sibley  College,  the  mechanical  engineering 
and  mechanic  arts  building.  With  its  heavy, 
square  central  portion,  its  broad  wings  and  low 
dome  this  college  is  a  perfect  terminal  to  the 
long  vista. 

Sitting  on  the  steps  of  Boardman  Hall,  we 
surveyed  the  prospect  in  sequestered  ease,  except 
when  prospective  young  lawyers,  on  their  way 
to  and  from  classes,  ran  up  and  down  these  same 
steps.  Boardman  Hall  is  very  thoroughly  covered 
with  ivy  and  makes  a  handsome  background.  In 
line  with  it  to  the  east,  but  off  the  University 
campus,  as  the  one  enclosed  by  the  stone  quad- 
rangle is  called,  is  Stimson  Hall,  the  medical 
school.  Only  the  first  year  men  study  here,  the 
course  being  finished  in  New  York  City,  at  the 
college  there  owned  by  the  University. 


CORNELL 

The  eastern  frontage  to  the  campus  is  supplied 
by  Goldwin  Smith  Hall,  with  broad  wings  ex- 
tending from  a  Doric  centre,  whose  huge  columns, 
sun  and  shadow  flecked,  were  beautiful  to  look 
upon.  Here  the  humanities  are  taught;  history, 
the  arts  and  the  liberal  sciences.  Up  and  down 
its  wide  steps  went  men  and  girls,  eager  after 
beauty  and  truth.  Never,  it  seemed  to  us,  had 
we  seen  so  much  life  on  a  campus  before.  Perfect 
streams  of  young  people  moved  within  our  line 
of  vision,  going  in  groups  and  squads.  Many  of 
the  men  were  in  khaki.  Cornell  has  long  main- 
tained a  military  organisation,  it  has  officers  of 
the  regular  army  for  instructors,  and  practically 
the  entire  Freshman  class  of  men  go  into  the 
regiment  as  the  best  way  of  fulfilling  the  required 
athletic  and  hygienic  requirements  of  that  year. 
The  effect  upon  their  carriage  and  good  health 
is  marked;  they  are  a  lively,  snappy  set,  and 
after  continuing  the  work  for  several  months  they 
have  learnt  much  of  the  technique  of  military 
life  and  the  science  of  war.  Of  course,  in  a 
year  like  this,  the  military  course  was  crowded. 
The  uniforms  gave  the  campus  scene  an  added 
touch  of  romance  and  colour. 

"What  a  place!"  exclaimed  Sister.  "Just 
sitting  here  and  looking  on  is  a  liberal  education. 
I  suppose  every  state  in  the  Union  is  repre- 
sented among  those  boys  and  girls.  How  im- 


The  Great  Library  with  its  Upspringing  Tower 


CORNELL 

mensely  alive  they  all  seem,  and  what  a  lot  of 
enthusiasm  they  express  simply  by  their  way  of 
walking,  of  talking  in  such  interested  groups, 
of  dashing  away  suddenly  toward  one  of  the  en- 
trances. And  see  them  disappearing  down  those 
paths  leading  east.  There  must  be  a  lot  more 
to  study  over  there." 

There  was.  In  that  direction  lay  most  of  the 
technical  and  agricultural  buildings,  the  farms 
and  poultry  houses  and  dairies.  Southeast  was 
the  great  Athletic  Field,  the  Armory  and  the 
Gymnasium.  But  of  these  later. 

Finishing  the  eastern  side  of  the  quadrangle  is 
Lincoln  Building,  the  home  of  the  civil  engineer- 
ing work  of  the  University,  a  place  of  many 
gables  and  much  ivy.  Between  the  buildings 
show  fascinating  hints  of  the  scenery,  and  from 
their  upper,  outward  looking  windows  the  view 
of  the  surroundings  is  superb. 

The  west  side  of  the  quad  are  White  Hall, 
College  of  Architecture,  McGraw  Hall,  Geology 
and  Zoology,  with  Morrill  Hall,  which  holds  the 
administrative  offices  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
the  Psychological  Laboratory  on  the  upper  floor. 
In  the  corner,  between  Boardman  and  Morrill,  is 
the  great  Library  with  its  upspringing  tower, 
sharply  pointed.  The  light  grey  stone  of  which 
it  is  built,  much  hidden  by  ivy,  is  beautifully 
adapted  to  the  irregular  charm  of  the  construc- 


CORNELL 

tion,  and  the  building  completes  a  particularly 
harmonious  and  yet  sufficiently  varied  frame  to 
the  fine  campus.  The  Library  has  an  endowment 
of  a  million  and  a  great  collection  of  books  in 
the  general  library,  besides  many  special  col- 
lections. As  was  explained  to  us  at  Yale,  a 
University  Library  has  many  needs  to  meet, 
amid  which  those  of  the  undergraduates  are  but 
a  small  part.  Cornell  is  magnificently  supplied 
to  meet  such  needs,  and  is  constantly  adding 
to  her  possessions. 

Here  then  was  the  entire  group  that  goes  to 
make  the  Stone  Quadrangle,  but  the  difficulty  of 
conveying  an  impression  of  that  sun-swept  and 
tree-shaded  and  palace-sided  oblong  as  we  two, 
sitting  there  and  looking,  caught  it,  is  beyond 
me.  Again  and  again,  to  us,  was  emphasised 
the  abounding  feeling  of  vitality  that  is  Cornell. 
The  very  colour  of  the  stones  carries  this  sense 
of  life.  The  faraway  shine  of  the  lake,  beautiful 
Cayuga,  stretching  north,  flashes  the  same  mes- 
sage, the  smell  of  the  pines,  the  lush  elms,  the 
clear,  high  notes  of  many  birds,  and  always  and 
ever  that  stream  of  ardent  young  life  pouring  in 
and  out,  traversing  the  lawns,  meeting  and  pass- 
ing on  the  paths. 

"  Come  along,"  said  a  girl  student,  who  was 
going  to  show  us  more.  '  There  are  the  gorges, 
you  know,  North  and  South.  We  have  a  series 


CORNELL 

of  the  loveliest  falls  in  the  country,  some  as  many 
as  nine  miles  away,  some  .  .  ." 

She  halted  us  on  top  of  Ithaca  Falls  and  let  us 
see  for  ourselves.  They  are  the  largest  in  Falls 
Creek,  directly  north  of  the  campus.  Their  music 
sounds  above  the  soft  murmur  of  the  University 
life  in  a  continuous  chant  as  they  tumble  in  white 
glory  down  the  rocks.  A  woodland  path,  arched 
over  by  evergreens,  lets  you  walk  along  the  glen, 
climbing  through  a  forest  of  noble  trees,  with 
that  wild  little  river  rushing  beside  it,  and  plung- 
ing down  between  its  stone  precipices  in  one  fall 
or  cataract  after  another.  We  followed  it  to  the 
lake  made  by  damming  its  headlong  career  where 
the  Hydraulic  Laboratory  hums  and  whirls,  a 
building  that  almost  makes  a  canon  wall  itself, 
as  it  steps  down  from  level  to  level.  Lake  Beebe 
is  a  charming  little  sheet  of  water,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  being  artificial. 

The  whole  country  round  about  Ithaca  is  a 
treasure  of  glens  where  the  hemlocks  keep  the 
sun  away  from  the  dark  pools  and  flashing  falls 
of  Falls  Creek  and  Cascadilla  Creek,  which  runs 
to  the  south  of  the  University,  and  is  as  beautiful, 
if  not  quite  as  large,  as  Falls.  These  two  streams 
have  cut  very  deep  gorges  of  a  singularly  pic- 
turesque type.  Bridges  span  them  with  high 
arches,  some  of  stone,  some  of  wood,  and  Falls 
Creek  is  crossed  high  in  air  by  the  electric  cars. 


CORNELL 

We  stared  up  to  see  a  car  race  along  the  dizzy 
bridge  that  carries  it  and  decided  to  take  that  car 
in  a  spare  moment,  between  other  sight-seeing 
engagements. 

Forest  Home  Path  and  Godwin  Smith  Path, 
or  Walk,  were  shown  to  us  in  a  sort  of  hushed 
rapture  by  our  young  guide. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  college  that  had  such  a 
campus  as  this? — for  all  this  is  a  part  of  our 
campus.  Waterfalls  people  come  to  see  from  all 
over  the  country,  just  chucked  in  with  the  tuition 
fees,"  she  laughed. 

"  I've  heard  about  Cornell  all  my  life,"  I  said, 
"  but  it  has  always  been  the  working  side  of  the 
place,  the  wonderful  agricultural  work  done  here, 
the  letters  sent  out  to  housewives  and  farmers, 
the  fact  that  the  Cornell  Crew  had  won  again— 
I've  seen  it  at  that  deadly  work  on  the  Hudson. 
But  of  all  this  green  enchantment,  these  dancing 
waters  and  deep  glens,  the  exquisiteness  of  the 
lake,  the  splendid  bits  of  forest — never  a  word." 

'Winter  here  is  simply  wonderful,"  the  girl 
responded,  and  her  eyes  fairly  shone.  "  You 
ought  to  see  this  glen  after  the  first  fall  of  snow, 
with  every  branch  loaded  with  it,  and  icicles  shining 
everywhere,  and  the  water  still  calling  and  plung- 
ing. It  is  a  real  fairyland.  And  then  the  lake. 
They  build  a  great  toboggan  slide,  you  know, 
and  from  that  you  fly  far  out  on  the  ice — whisshh! 


CORNELL 

Talk  about  fun.  In  spite  of  our  being  in  a  big 
city  like  Ithaca,  it's  the  most  outdoor  place, 
Cornell." 

On  our  way  to  see  the  Agricultural  Buildings, 
a  fine,  businesslike  appearing  collection,  hand- 
somely conceived,  we  stopped  to  admire  the  beauty 
of  Bailey  Hall,  the  new  auditorium,  named  in 
honour  of  Liberty  Hyde  Bailey,  who  for  fifteen 
years  was  a  professor  at  Cornell,  and  for  ten  years 
Dean,  and  unusual  in  many  ways,  particularly 
in  the  way  of  genius.  The  building  is  encircled 
by  slender  pillars,  with  a  low,  graceful  dome, 
almost  circular  in  its  form,  and  seats  a  very  large 
number.  It  is  proper  that  it  should  lie  on  the 
way  to  the  Agricultural  College,  since  that  was 
Professor  Bailey's  field  of  work.  He  still  lives 
in  a  little  house  under  the  very  eaves  of  the 
great  heights  on  which  the  University  stands, 
with  a  greenhouse  adjoining  his  workshop. 

"  Presently  he  will  be  going  to  his  summer 
home,  on  Lake  Cayuga,"  we  were  told.  The 
University  has  many  tales  to  tell  of  its  late  Dean. 
Tall,  thin,  true  countryman,  with  a  countryman's 
speech  and  manner,  he  is  at  home  in  any  environ- 
ment and  with  any  human  creature.  He  has 
lived  all  over  the  world,  not  in  its  cities  so 
much  as  in  its  wild  places,  where  plants  grew 
for  the  seeking.  His  additions  to  knowledge 
have  been  important,  his  manner  of  imparting 

.-+•  357  -«- 


CORNELL 

what  he  knows  distinguished  by  an  entire  lack 
of  affectation,  considerable  humour  and  the  finest 
simplicity.  The  best  that  is  meant  by  the  spirit 
of  Cornell  may  be  said  to  find  its  expression  in 
him.  He  is  now  working  on  his  Standard  Cyclo- 
pedia of  Horticulture,  but  he  has  not  lost  touch 
with  Cornell  nor  ceased  to  be  a  vital  portion  of 
the  University. 

We  had  kept  chickens  ourselves,  so  that  in  the 
great  agricultural  group  we  were  more  attracted 
to  the  Poultry  House  than  to  any  other  item. 
Here  are  things  as  they  should  be.  Here  all 
sorts  of  experiments  are  tried,  and  the  chickens, 
from  earliest  cluck  to  the  last  squawk,  are  made 
to  walk  a  chalk  line.  The  plant  is  a  delight, 
and  we  could  hardly  drag  ourselves  away. 

It  was  in  my  early  teens  that  I  had  developed 
the  mania  for  raising  hens  which  lasted  some  years 
and  had  its  measure  of  success.  I  remember  once 
stating  solemnly  and  with  conviction  that  my  life 
would  always  be  completely  happy  if  only  I  were 
allowed  to  keep  chickens. 

"  If  I  can  keep  chickens,  even  a  few,  I  shan't 
care,"  was  my  conclusion. 

We  wanted  to  see  some  of  the  military  work, 
so  there  we  went  now,  as  it  was  an  hour  when 
something  might  be  expected.  On  the  way  we 
took  a  look  at  the  Stadium  on  Alumni  Field,  a 
huge  flight  of  seats,  tier  on  tier,  and  at  the  base- 

.-*-  358  -?- 


CORNELL 

ball  cage  and  field  house  to  the  south.  Then 
we  stopped,  in  view  of  the  campus  before  the 
Armory.  The  men  were  at  work,  and  the  sight 
was  inspiring. 

"  Khaki  and  green  make  a  pleasing  combina- 
tion," Sister  said,  as  the  three  of  us  stood  watch- 
ing the  charging,  the  marching,  the  turns  and 
abrupt  pauses  of  the  military  instruction  in 
progress.  'What  a  lot  of  them  there  are!" 

And  how  easily  they  went  through  the 
work.  It  was  nothing  new  here,  and  the  boys 
showed  it. 

We  both  decided  that  what  we  had  seen  of 
military  training  in  the  lay  colleges  was  a  wonder- 
ful argument  for  military  training  as  a  part  of 
the  life  of  every  boy.  It  certainly  did  not  make 
for  the  militaristic  spirit.  There  was  nothing  of 
that  shown,  and  very  few  of  the  boys  in  normal 
times  entered  the  regular  army.  But  in  every 
physical  sign  and  in  a  poise  that  was  unmistak- 
able, it  gave  a  definite  result  and  a  praiseworthy 
one. 

As  we  looked  on,  watching  the  young  officers 
take  their  companies  through  the  proper  evolu- 
tions, we  turned  to  the  young  girl  beside  us  and 
told  her  that  war  or  no  war,  and  certainly  it  was 
to  be  hoped  that  never  again  in  the  future  was 
there  to  be  a  war,  we  were  for  universal  training. 

"  My  brother  says  he  wouldn't  have  missed  it 


CORNELL 

for  anything,"  she  told  us.  "  And  when  he  came 
here  he  rebelled  against  it  at  first.  But  prac- 
tically all  the  Freshmen  take  it,  and  you  have  to 
have  a  pretty  good  reason  to  be  excused  from  it. 
So  he  joined  the  rest,  and  before  long,  when  he 
saw  what  it  did  for  the  boys,  he  was  strong 
for  it." 

"  Is  he  there  now?  " 

But  he  had  graduated  the  year  before.  And 
when  we  wanted  to  know  whether  it  was  cus- 
tomary for  brothers  and  sisters  to  attend  the 
University  together  she  said  it  did  seem  to  be. 
But  the  boys  and  the  girls  were  apt  to  centre 
on  different  studies,  and  there  was  so  much  to 
do,  each  in  his  or  her  own  sphere,  that  as  likely 
as  not  they  saw  very  little  of  each  other. 

"  But  let  me  show  you  Sage  College,  the  first 
Woman's  Dorm,"  and  away  she  went,  winding 
us  back  behind  Boardman  and  past  the  Chapel. 
Sage  is  a  building  of  too  many  sharp,  thin  towers 
and  the  terrible  word  ornate  might  be  applied  to 
it  with  justice,  but  it  is  large  and  comfortable, 
the  rooms  are  delightful,  the  green  boughs  of 
the  trees  embrace  it  and  the  creepers  adorn  it 
lovingly. 

Not  far  away  is  South  Gorge,  with  a  finely 
arched  bridge  spanning  the  falls  of  Cascadilla 
Creek,  that  comes  down  a  series  of  natural  stone 
steps  in  a  welter  of  foam.  The  evergreens  are 

-+360-*- 


CORNELL 

close-set  here,  and  a  sweet  wind  blew  down  the 
gorge,  carrying  the  voice  of  the  waters  on  its 
cool  wings.  Cascadilla  Hall  too  is  near  here, 
another  dormitory. 

Many  of  the  students  sleep  and  live  in  the 
fraternity  houses,  for  Cornell  supports  the  fra- 
ternities with  entire  enthusiasm.  Apparently  each 
college  without  them  is  filled  with  self -congratu- 
lation to  think  of  its  happy  fate  in  this  respect, 
and  precisely  the  same  appears  to  be  true  of  each 
college  with  them.  The  puzzle  of  the  frats. — it 
might  make  a  good  detective  story,  but  it  would 
have  to  end  with  two  solutions. 

"Do  you  approve  of  fraternities  in  college 
life? "  might  be  asked  of  American  institutions 
of  learning. 

"  Yes— and  No." 

The  answer  covers  the  whole  ground. 

Cornell  has  many  other  societies  and  clubs.  A 
great  deal  of  its  life  is  subdivided  off,  college 
by  college.  Many  students  come  for  definite 
courses  in  one  special  college.  Many  come  only 
for  the  summer  school,  but  among  the  summer 
students  are  plenty  of  others  who  are  shortening 
their  necessary  time  at  the  University  by  carry- 
ing on  work  during  the  extra  season,  or  by 
taking  up  an  entirely  different  branch.  The 
athletic  work  brings  a  great  many  into  close  rela- 
tions, and  Cornell  is  famous  for  its  prowess  on 


CORNELL 

the  field  and  on  the  water.  There  are  various 
student  associations,  each  numbering  many  mem- 
bers. Both  the  men  and  the  girls  have  their 
meeting  rooms,  their  special  interests.  There 
are  several  student  publications. 

"  It  is  a  complex,  crowded  life  here,"  said 
our  guide,  as  we  drifted  back  to  the  University 
campus,  and  once  again  gazed  at  the  charming 
scene  and  the  beckoning  view.  Up  beyond  Beebe 
Lake  we  could  see  the  domes  of  the  Fuertes 
Observatory,  like  bubbles  amid  the  greenery,  and 
now  we  knew  that  the  thick  dark  line  of  ever- 
greens that  was  traceable  beyond  the  campus 
boundary  marked  the  wild  course  of  Falls  Creek. 
The  better  you  know  Cornell  the  better  you 
realise  how  beautiful  it  is.  Complex  and  crowded 
the  life  may  be.  But  it  is  surrounded  by  im- 
mensities of  peace  and  loveliness. 

"  Yes,  it  is  crowded  and  it  is  full  of  varying 
interests,"  said  the  pretty  young  creature,  who 
looked  so  fit  and  ready  in  blouse  and  short  skirt, 
with  a  sweater  as  golden  as  her  hair.  "  Natu- 
rally it  can't  help  being  a  good  deal  split  up; 
but  that  is  so  everywhere.  Some  of  the  students 
go  to  the  city  a  great  deal,  some  of  us  hardly 
ever.  Of  course  Lake  Cayuga  is  a  rallying  place 
both  in  summer  and  in  winter,  and  so  is  Alumni 
Field  and  so,  more  than  all,  is  the  Library.  Then 
there  are  special  celebrations  of  the  different 

-i-362-e- 


CORNELL 

classes,  and  the  mad  excitements  of  Commence- 
ment. It's  a  huge,  intensely  interesting,  colourful 
kaleidoscope.  As  the  pattern  turns  and  changes, 
you  pick  out  of  it  what  appeals  to  you,  and 
go  for  that.  Sometimes  you  make  a  mistake,  but 
there  is  plenty  of  time  to  make  a  fresh  start,  to 
find  yourself  here.  It's  wonderful!" 

Much  of  Cornell's  prosperity  has  come  from  the 
sale  of  western  lands,  located  by  Ezra  Cornell 
and  handed  over  to  the  University  whose  welfare 
he  had  so  much  at  heart.  For  a  number  of  years 
there  were  troublous  times,  and  money  seemed 
impossible  to  get.  Whenever  things  grew  too 
strenuous  Mr.  Cornell  would  dig  in  again,  and 
pay  off  salaries  or  debts  and  set  the  wheels 
rolling  once  more.  During  those  first  struggling 
fifteen  years  famous  men  lectured  at  the  Uni- 
versity, for  it  is  part  of  the  Cornell  plan  to 
have  lectures  each  year  by  non-resident  professors 
and  men  of  attainments.  Lowell,  George  W. 
Curtis,  Theodore  Dwight,  Goldwin  Smith,  Bayard 
Taylor  and  Louis  Agassiz,  were  among  those  early 
lecturers.  There  are  few  men  of  mark  of  late 
years  who  have  not  spoken  before  the  under- 
graduates. 

We  left  the  grounds  with  a  copy  of  The 
Cornell  Widow  under  one  arm,  and  of  the 
Cornell  Magazine  under  the  other.  The  one  is 
serious,  the  other  is  not.  They  express  some- 


CORNELL 

thing  of  Cornell,  between  them.*  But  only  a 
little. 

The  University  has  far  outrun  Ezra  Cornell's 
ambition  to  "  found  an  institution  where  any 
person  can  find  instruction  in  any  study,"  noble 
as  that  ambition  was.  Much  more  than  instruc- 
tion is  found  there. 

As  Sister  put  it: 

"I  don't  see  but  that,  by  and  large,  Cornell 
doesn't  pretty  well  express  the  whole  of  this 
country  of  ours,  male  and  female,  rich  and  poor, 
in  most  of  its  countless  activities  and  interests.  A 
great  democratic  University,  wonderfully  beauti- 
ful, magnificently  situated,  thoroughly  alive.  It's 
tremendous!" 

THE  END 


364 


LT 


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APR   10  1933 


17  1934 


ocr 


Rrn    JLU 


945 


LD  21-50m-l,'3: 


03209 


94804-4698 


-6753 


